Vigilantia Pretium Libertatis
by aradian nights
Summary: Five years ago, an accident freed Eren Jaeger, Mikasa Ackerman, and Armin Arlelt from an experiment that forced the most extraordinary powers onto them. After five years of being raised apart to be heroes by a set of three very different adults, they meet again. As they uncover the truth behind their captivity they realize being free and being heroes are just illusions. Hero AU.
1. without limit

_**ad infinitum**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. iv Kalendas Septembres, 2766 A.U.C._

The thin, glossy pages of the vaguely old fifty-cent X-Men comic crinkled beneath his sweaty fingers. He had begun to hum idly, a vaguely familiar tune to an old nursery rhyme or a hymn from his childhood that had long since bled dry into the faded landscape of his memory. The words drifted loftily in his mind, but he could not form them, and he could only catch wisps of a verse like grasping at smoke._ Meine H__ä__nde sind verschwunden…_ The late August heat had invaded the little comic shop on the lower floor of the massive mall he had dragged Hange into a few minutes earlier. There was a little fan cycling behind the front desk, white and rapidly circulating stale air, blowing back humidity with a whirring breath. The comic shop was a little underwhelming, and Eren was considering just leaving out of disappointment. Also, he was really, really hungry, and he was beginning to feel the vicious vertigo effect that overtook him when he neglected to eat a full meal or two every few hours.

"See anything you like?" Hange asked, hopping up beside him. They'd materialized from the shadows, creeping up on him as they liked to do when they noticed him focused on something moderately more interesting than a microscope.

"Not really," Eren said, flipping the page of the cheap comic book. "Where'd you go, anyways?"

"I saw myself on the news in Sears," Hange said, their large brown eyes growing wider with excitement. "They didn't even cut out my rambles about quantum physics this time!"

Hange Zoë was a very willowy person, with a lithe frame and a lax posture. They dressed in very loose, ambiguously casual clothing that could easily pass for formal with the addition of a vest or suit coat, which they tended to have hidden in the back of their car. Hange was a brilliant physicist, an entrepreneur, and a philanthropist. They had taken in Eren Jaeger five years ago, and adopted him the previous summer.

"So can we go?" Hange asked, adjusting their glasses and glancing at their watch. "Because I've got that thing."

Eren's knuckles closed tightly around the edge of the comic he was holding, and the pages made a soft crumpling sound. "You mean that thing that I can't go to?" he asked bitterly.

"You mean because you're grounded?" Hange smiled brightly. "Yes! I do, actually!"

Eren clapped the comic shut, and shoved it back into the box he'd unearthed it from. "It's not like anyone died," Eren snapped.

"Nope," Hange said, their smile big, but their eyes narrowed dangerously. "But five people are in the hospital, and three are critically injured."

"I didn't _mean_—!"

"Shh," Hange hushed, their gaze flashing to the lone worker of the comic shop. It was a young lady, probably in college, with a pen cap wiggling between her teeth as she gazed down at the counter. Eren was relieved to see white earbuds stuck inside her ears. "I know. But you need to understand where I'm coming from."

"I don't think I'm dangerous," Eren whispered furiously from behind a rack of new releases.

Hange merely smiled, and rubbed his hair affectionately. "Of course you are," they laughed, eyes glittering vaguely with something Eren could not describe, but he knew well. It was that mad look Hange got whenever the subject of Eren's ability was brought up. The terrible, terrifying curiosity that burned inside Hange's large brown eyes that signified that they needed to know more, and they were willing to push Eren to the edge for that information.

But thankfully, despite Hange being more than willing, they did not push Eren farther than they thought he could go. And he was grateful for it. Mostly.

"Bullshit," Eren growled, glaring at his feet. "I'm just… a little out of practice, okay? I don't get to go all out often."

"For this reason exactly," Hange reminded. Eren scowled at them, and they laughed again, though Eren could sense how forced it was. "Lighten up. I only grounded you for a week. And, hey, aren't you always complaining about missing your TV shows?" Hange grinned and snapped their fingers. "There we go! Watch some Netflix! Or better yet, make some friends!"

"I _have_ friends," Eren said stiffly. "And fuck you, I can't watch the episodes I've missed of _any_ of my shows on Netflix."

"I'm sorry, then why do we own this?" Hange blinked rapidly, and they frowned. "I'll work on that. Till then, I won't tell on you if you watch stuff illegally."

"Okay, whatever," Eren grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He glanced out into the mall, and he sighed. "I'm hungry."

"Then go eat."

"I don't have the money," Eren said, glaring at them with his scowl still firmly in place. "Because _someone_ only gave me three dollars to buy a comic book."

"How terrible," Hange cooed, fishing their wallet out of their pocket and offering it out to him. "Promise me you won't max my card."

"You have like, seven, Hange," Eren retorted, snatching the wallet and whirling around. He paused, and he spun to face them again with a furious expression. "Don't you dare go outside and smoke."

"Whoa!" Hange threw their hands into the air, and grinned broadly. "Wasn't gonna. But, now that you mention it, I'm feelin' a little low…"

"This isn't a joke!" Eren shouted. Hange looked surprised, but they smiled nonetheless. The girl at the counter was watching them with a frown, one earbud clutched in her fist. "I'm gonna go and— and burn 'em, every last solitary cigarette!"

"Isn't that the point?" Hange offered weakly.

"No, it—!" Eren paused, and he clamped his mouth shut. His shoulders were squared, and he scoffed in irritation. "Whatever! Go on, burn up your lungs, see if I care!"

"I love you too!" Hange called as Eren whirled away again and marched out the door. "Have fun! Make good choices!"

Eren kicked a trashcan on the way out the door, and gave a rather startled squeak when it tipped over. He glanced around, and hastily put it back up, feeling guilty for letting his anger go unchecked. He could hear Hange laughing. _Practice what you preach_, Eren thought bitterly, his cheeks flushing.

He adjusted the backpack he had slung over one shoulder, vaguely remembering something about homework, but school had only just started, and he wasn't very concerned. He could probably just deal with it later. So he wandered around the ground floor of the mall, searching the signs for something to eat. The food court was on one of the upper floors, he was pretty sure, but that didn't mean there wasn't a little pretzel place or something lurking around somewhere.

Eren checked his phone. He probably should have eaten something about an hour ago, maybe, but whatever. He could deal with running on reserve power for a little while.

Due to his unique ability, Eren rapidly used up his energy. He was narcoleptic and diabetic, so he had to be careful to monitor himself when he used his power. This was one of the reasons why he rarely transformed entirely, and instead only partially grew massive limbs. It was tedious, but safer on his body and for everyone around him. Nobody wanted a fifteen meter monster crashing into skyscrapers, no matter the monster's good intentions. The first time he had ever transformed in a densely populated area, he'd nearly killed twelve people. He'd slept for two days afterward.

He probably should check his blood sugar and take his insulin, but food came first because he wanted food really bad, and he'd checked it a few hours ago, so he was probably fine. He passed a drug store, and he paused for a moment. Then he glanced at his phone, and tucked it in the pocket of his backpack, walking slowly into the bland, off-white maze of shelves.

Eren was checking out nicotine patches when the distant sound of screaming piqued his interest. He glanced around wildly, his fingers moving slowly toward his backpack. And then he remembered that Hange had confiscated his uniform. _Fuck_, he thought glumly, glancing around the drugstore hastily. There was a man at the counter, looking a little stunned, and Eren met his terror-filled eyes.

"What's happening?" Eren asked casually, hooking his thumb around the strap of his backpack.

The man's face contorted in vague irritation. "Well, yeesh, kid, I don't—!" A walk-talkie spluttered into life beyond the counter, and a broken, panicked voice gasped, "_Gunshots on seventh floor_."

_Hey_, Eren thought amusedly. _That's where the food court is_. He thought it was funny. If he hadn't been distracted by Hange's awful smoking habit, he could have been up there, already kicking ass. _Except_, he remembered, _I'm in my goddamn civvies_.

Being a hero was less of a choice and more of a necessity. There was no Eren Jaeger without Rogue. See, he'd always been Rogue in some sense, but Hange had been the one who had placed a mask over his eyes, and declared him a hero. That was something he'd needed when he had been younger. He'd needed that optimism, that gentle word that shed light on Eren's potential. _Hero_.

Because being a monster didn't mean he was bad, or anything. It just depended on what path the monstrosity inside Eren took.

And so far, he thought he was being a pretty nice monster, actually.

His fingers were tingling with anticipation as he mulled over what to do. He could just leave it to Hange, or the police. But by then, people could die.

_No_, Eren thought firmly, whirling away from the counter and weaving between the shelves furiously. _No one is going to die_.

He passed a shelf full of children's art supplies, and he grabbed a bottle of green finger paint, tearing off the price tag and slapping into another shelf as he bolted from the store. Outside, chaos had enveloped the entirety of the mall. There were throngs of people leaping toward exits, running down stairs, some were screaming and some were on the phone, and Eren took a deep breath and threw himself into the streams of bodies pushing the way opposite of his destination.

Eren would be able to handle this situation faster than Hange. Hange was much more recognizable, and beyond that, they were human. Eren didn't want to risk Hange's safety over something that he could easily do on his own. Of course, he knew they were more powerful as a team, and he was totally cool with that, but on short notice like this Eren was the one with the power to stop a shooting, not Hange. Eren didn't even know if Hange had their uniform with them, unless it was in the car.

They weren't like, professionals, or anything. It's not like either of them had any how-to guides to super heroing, aside from comic books, which Eren found ill informing. Keeping identities a secret was _way_ harder than it looked, and not to mention all the crazy stunts that just didn't work in real life! Eren had his ability, yes, and he was pretty good at hand-to-hand combat, but he would never be able to scale a building or drop from one even with his ability. He'd probably take the building down, honestly.

Eren tore at the plastic around the cap of the paint bottle as he fought through the stampede of people running down the stairwell. He could hear sirens vaguely in the distance. Eren flicked open the bottle of finger paint, and paused upon the flight of steps leading to the seventh floor. He was suddenly very alone. He could see a figure lurking at the landing, and Eren carefully ducked behind a pillar.

He decided squirting the paint would make too much noise, so he just yanked the entire cap off and scooped a glob of green paint out of the bottle with two fingers. Eren was thinking really only of security cameras, because Hange was very careful not to let the media take pictures of him. No one would recognize him in his civvies, but it was a precaution he needed to take. He was a little jealous of Hange, who had developed a pretty good cover for their secret identity. They were perceived by the media was being female which they said didn't bother them much, but Eren was not so naïve anymore as to believe that. As a hero, the media used male pronouns for them. Thus, no one ever made the connection between Hange Zoë and Polymath, who were both heroes of technology in different senses.

Eren closed his eyes and smeared the paint carefully around the hollows of his eyes, spreading the green goop across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and he could smell the distinct acidity of the cold, dripping liquid. It was clumping in his eyelashes, plastering his hair to his cheeks. He didn't care much.

He tossed the bottle of paint aside, and it bounced against a step, clacking noisily as green paint coagulated against worn granite. Eren was already running up the steps when the gunman guarding the stairwell turned around.

Eren grabbed hold of his wrist as he moved forward, and he blinked rapidly to dispel the paint from his vision. Then he squeezed his right hand, and gave it a quick, painful twist until a sharp _crack_ spat through the silence, and pain shuddered through Eren's arm like a jolt of electricity pulsating slowly, and then rapidly, crackling and bursting with a sudden life that tingled his nerves and caused his olive-toned skin to split open with a steaming hiss.

The man's eyes momentarily went wide behind his mask, and his gun swerved in Eren's direction momentarily before a mighty, half formed fist came crashing down on him like the hand of god squashing a fly. The man crumpled on impact, and Eren streaked past him before he even hit the ground.

The stairs opened up on the food court, and it might have been a lifesaver to him if he had the chance to actually get food. He listened to the sound of gunshots, his arm throbbing from the mass of nerves bulging from the appendage into the fleshy mass of his Rogue arm. He had two ways to trigger his ability— broken bones triggered a controlled variation, where he could choose what part of his body he wanted to go Rogue, and breaking skin, which triggered the full on Rogue transformation.

Becoming fifteen meters tall was not optimal on the seventh floor of a building. Nor was it particularly great for Eren's health.

Eren spotted a group of people clustered between tables, sitting with their hands over their heads and their eyes on him. _A hostage situation?_ Eren had to frown, and wonder where the logic was in that.

He covered himself with his Rogue arm as gunfire rang out in rapid succession of whooshing bullets. He felt one or two graze his Rogue arm, steam flooding the air upon impact, but it did no damage to his actual body, so he didn't really care. He spotted a few gunmen, who were looking at him vaguely with terror and awe, and he grinned at them broadly.

"Hey!" Eren cried, waving his rather disproportionate right arm in the air wildly. "Recognize me, huh?"

Eren had learned pretty quickly that the only way to act in these situations was carefree. Otherwise he'd over think what he was doing, and it was important that he kept all attention on him. He didn't want any hostages getting hurt.

"Hold on," called a woman, her arm flying out and her chin jerking at one of her lackeys. Her eyes were on Eren, her chin high, and Eren thought perhaps he recognized her. She was vaguely familiar, but there was a mask covering her dark face. Eren tilted his head. He prepared to begin punching out anyone with a gun, but something flickered out of the corner of his eye. Someone standing amongst the sitting hostages.

It was a familiar sort of flicker. It sent a wave of déjà vu flooding through him, as he recalled the troublesome games of hide-and-seek, a boy who had only wanted to go outside for just a few minutes to feel the sun on his skin, the uncanny memory of disembodied blood dribbling effortlessly from an invisible wound and glistening as it hovered in midair, accompanied by distant, breathy sobs that came from nowhere, and came from nothing, and yet erupted with the voice of a miserable child from the corner of a scathingly white room. _Did they beat him_, Eren wondered, _or am I remembering wrong?_

Eren could feel his Rogue arm unraveling, threads of artificial flesh sloughing from bone in a mist of heat and Eren felt his heartbeat accelerate in alarm and excitement and confusion, his eyes roving the crowd of hostages once more to try and find that familiar flicker just one more time. He didn't notice his arm fall away, because he wasn't thinking. He was too busy floundering with this idea that perhaps that flicker could have been the same as the boy from his memory.

He took a wild, dizzy step forward. If only for a moment, he forgot where he was. Remnants of his Rogue arm fell to the ground like glistening red ribbons, chunks of flesh still clinging to a giant steaming bone. He whirled around, his eyes darting desperately around the expansive room, and he fumbled for breath as a thought fluttered through his mind, shouting into an empty ether. _Armin!_

"Where did you…?" Eren's eyes widened as five gunshots split through the air.

Eren didn't feel the sting. He didn't even realize he'd been hit until his blood burst outward from his chest in a glimmering red cascade. It startled him. It made him feel idiotic, and he was suddenly furious at himself for being so weak and vulnerable. He blinked rapidly as the pain finally settled in his chest, rattling his busted ribs and blooming across the front of the Mikky Ekko shirt Hange had gotten for him when they had taken him to that concert the summer before, and Eren was a little pissed because he fucking liked that shirt, and now there was fucking blood on it, and his human blood didn't evaporate like his Rogue blood, and he was just so fucking stupid and he hated himself and everyone around him a little for it. _Fuck_, he thought dizzily, blood sloshing in his mouth as he heard a distant shout. A girl amongst the hostages had jumped to her feet. _I fucked up, I fucked up, oh my god, I fucked up_.

He noticed, as he wobbled on his feet, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth, that the blood, which had been expelled from his chest due to the gunshots, was now splattered across the air. Eren saw his blood glistening in a spatter of color, suspended by some invisible canvas. Eren's vision was unfocused, but he thought he could see a vaguely human shape amidst the crimson silhouette. Eren blinked rapidly as the world began to flicker around him.

No. Not around him. _Before_ him.

Like a faulty television screen, the sight of a small boy flickered in and out of existence right in front of Eren's eyes. Eren saw the contours of his face as the appeared and disappeared, blood framing his cheeks and smearing across his pale hair. He was wearing a white hood, and that too was stained with flecks of Eren's blood.

Eren knew that he was smiling, and he realized perhaps that looked unusual on a boy who was supposed to be dying.

Armin looked almost the same, as though the years had not touched his child-like appearance, as though time could not touch the innocence in his eyes as they glimmered with unshed tears. Eren could only choke on laughter and blood as he finally collapsed to his knees at Armin Arlelt's feet. Eren was upset, because this wasn't how they were supposed to meet again. Eren had concocted the entire scenario a thousand times. He hadn't accounted for Armin's powers, or Eren's lack of focus.

It occurred to Eren that the shooters might go for Armin, and his heart stuttered in shock. Because his mind had given a vicious command upon the revelation. _Protect Armin_. Eren could feel his body begin to react, but before he could fully transform, a scream split through the air. The scream was louder than any gunshot, and it shuddered and cracked and unfurled like a flag of rage and pain, bearing a crest of shame and shock and sharing none of the blame and simply reaching and rumbling and crashing like waves, and Eren felt the scream in his bones, felt it rattling inside him like a wounded animal against a cage, and he felt it in his heart and felt it in his head and felt it crash against his mouth, sloshing against his tongue, and he felt it in his eyes and in the blood that pooled beneath him as he toppled over in utter shock, breathless and bleeding and broken and bested by foes that he didn't even know, and there was screaming in his head, and screaming all around, and Eren thought perhaps he was screaming too though that was impossible because there was blood filling his mouth, and he was pretty damn sure his lungs were filled with bullets and blood and bits of bones.

The scream imbedded itself inside Eren and festered fast, blooming deadly and darkly, dusting his mind with poison. It was a shock that blasted throughout the entirety of Eren's being, and it was unlike anything he had ever felt before, like someone was in his head and ripping him apart from the inside until there was nothing left but a chilly blank slate, and Eren was scared for that reason as the entire world seemed to shatter at that very moment, a scream still shuddering through the air at a banshee's pitch, and Eren could not keep consciousness anymore.

He drifted into an almost peaceful slumber, with the face of his childhood friend illuminating the darkness that shrouded Eren's mind.

* * *

**Location Unknown**

_2760, A.U.C._

It was very white in the institution. Eren and Armin and Mikasa had once tried to count the colored walls, and they had gotten to six. But they weren't allowed everywhere in the building, so that hindered their progress a little bit. All in all, it was a rather boring little life they had. They had classes, and they had their own rooms, and sometimes they were allowed to watch movies if they were well behaved and didn't bite the doctors when they did their tests.

It was a pretty boring life. A stifling life.

Eren felt as though he was being kept in a cage and being raised for slaughter.

"Don't say that so loud," Armin whispered, his frightfully bright eyes rapidly scanning around them. "They might hear you."

Mikasa agreed sullenly, and Eren scowled at them. "But it's true," he hissed, glaring at the crayons they'd been given. They were told to draw a picture. Eren had drawn the blinding of the Cyclops from the Odyssey, which they were _supposed_ to be reading in class, but Armin was the only one who actually did the work. Eren didn't really understand much of it. "They keep us locked up in here, and for what? Don't you guys miss the outside world?"

"Of course," Armin whispered, hugging his knees to his chest. Mikasa bowed her head, and Eren rounded on her.

"Well," he said furiously, "don't you?"

Mikasa frowned, and she glanced at him. Her pretty, round face was curtained by her long black hair, and she closed her eyes. "Yes," she said mildly. "Of course."

Eren huffed, and let the wax of his crayon build up along the texture of the paper. "Anyways, we're missin' a whole bunch of stuff, nice stuff, like the sunrise. Mom and I used to wake up every day to watch the sunrise." He stopped, and he looked down at his drawing, and he set his crayon down and decided he didn't want to draw anymore.

Mikasa were quiet after that. Armin was too, until he began to sing that dumb nursery rhyme again, and Eren found himself humming along quietly, not knowing the words, and even Mikasa bobbed her head to the lofty, foreign words.

"_Meine H__ä__nde sind verschwunden, ich habe keine H__ä__nde mehr, ei, da sind die H__ä__nde wieder, tralalalalalala_…" He paused for a moment, his voice lilting as he blinked sadly downward. And then, he picked the nursery rhyme up again. "_Meine Nase ist verschwunden_…"

It was before they'd all gotten their powers, back when they still sorta felt like the institution was safe. Back when Eren had still believed in his father.

Eren had to suppose he had been lucky. His procedure had only been a series of shots to the nape of his neck. Eren didn't know why they had chosen him to test that particular serum (if the serums were even different), but he had to suppose they had tested on a few different people and had been unsuccessful until they tried it on him. His father had been present during the procedure, and Eren remembered that it had been the first time he had seen his father in months, and he'd been so excited for that very reason.

What a joke.

"How are you feeling?" his father asked, just before it had started. Eren felt mildly confused.

"Um," he said. "Fine, I guess. Where have you been? What's going on?" He vaguely remembered being hoisted in the man's arms, his arms around his father's neck. His legs had felt very heavy.

His father smiled sadly, and placed a hand on his head, ruffling his hair between long fingers. "Don't worry, Eren," he whispered. "Don't worry."

Well, after that was kinda a blur. As though Eren's memories had become disjointed, fracturing away from a larger, bolder picture that stretched across the massive expanse of his mind. There were gaps in his memory that spanned months. Sometimes he'd have little flashes, like someone had lit a fire in his chest, and now he was left to inhale chips of ice in order to put it out.

Armin was constantly rubbing his newly shaved head, and tentatively asking Eren if it looked bad, and Eren always replied no, though he was lying. He had a scar from the incision line, and Eren liked to touch it to see Armin get all jittery, though Mikasa had yelled at him for that.

"But what about you?" Eren asked her. She was thoughtlessly examining the ends of her hair, never looking at Armin or Eren directly. "Did you get your procedure yet?"

Mikasa shook her head. Armin and Eren exchanged a look. "Really?" Armin asked. "But we've all gotten them by now. Even Annie—"

"I know," Mikasa said, cutting Armin off sharply. She looked at him with a chilly gaze. "Maybe I just don't need one."

"We all need one," Eren said slowly. "It's part of the… the… ugh, what's it again, Armin?"

"Experiment?" Armin looked a little uncomfortable, and Eren wondered if perhaps the boy needed to lie down. He was having dizzy spells lately, but less now, Eren thought.

"Yeah," Eren said, waving idly. "That. I mean, it's not any big deal, or anything, and I think we're okay…"

"Eren," Mikasa hissed. "You were asleep for three months."

"I woke up sometimes," Eren grumbled.

"Eren, they cut into Armin's _brain_," Mikasa grabbed the smaller boy by the arm, and he gave a trembling, agonized scream of shock as his little arm gave a grotesque _crunch_ beneath Mikasa's slender fingers. Eren, upon instinct, lurched forward and shoved himself between his best friends, sending Mikasa toppling to the ground as he shoved her very, very hard.

"What the hell, Mikasa?" Eren snarled. He could hear Armin's quiet, mangled sobs from behind him as the boy cradled his arm to his chest, staring past Eren and at Mikasa with a watery, hopelessly confused gaze.

Mikasa was lying upon the white floor of the common room, staring with mild horror at her hands. Her slender fingers were trembling. "I…" she said breathlessly, her eyes raising to meet Eren's. "I didn't…"

Before Eren could yell at her some more, one of the institution's male doctors came striding up to them, cutting between Eren and Mikasa with a stern expression. "I think that's enough playing for today," said the man, carefully pulling Mikasa to her feet. She stood on wobbly legs, staring at her hands with wide, terrified eyes. The man held her wrist very tightly, studying her as though she had fallen down while running and skinned her knee. "Armin, come here. Let's get you to Dr. Jaeger."

"N-no," Armin gasped, his voice quivering and tears streaking his ashen face. He was cradling his arm to his chest, and Eren felt the urge to wrap his arm around the boy's shoulders to shield him from the doctor. Eren didn't know his name, or he didn't remember it. "No, sir, I-I'm f-fine, I'm—"

"That's enough, Armin," said the doctor steadily, his warm eyes assessing Armin with the gentlest of gazes. Eren realized the man was very young, probably like a teenager, or just out of being a teenager, or something like that, because his face was still pretty round, and he looked nicer than most of the other doctors. "Please come with me."

Armin looked at Eren sadly, and slowly followed the doctor out of the room.

It was never really clear to Eren before their powers manifested that the things going on at the institute could be evil. Previous to the procedures, he had just that they were being treated unfairly, but Eren still believed his father knew best despite his doubts and irritation. But then Mikasa had hurt Armin. Mikasa, who Eren sought to be the rock in his world, had harmed their friend, and he had almost damned her for that. She had avoided him and Armin for weeks and weeks, and when she appeared to class she often had bandages wrapped around her knuckles so thickly that she appeared the barely be able to hold her pen.

It wasn't until Armin's powers manifested that Eren began to realize what was truly going on. The experiment they were part of, it wasn't just data and research. It was variables, and those variables were them. They weren't taking part in any experiment. They _were_ the experiment.

* * *

_In introduction, I would like to say two things._

_One, happy birthday to Steph, and happy belated birthday to Saro. _

_Two, I hate myself for this._

_So much. _


	2. ever faithful

_**semper fidelis**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. iv Kalendas Septembres, 2766 A.U.C._

She was painfully aware of the obscurity surrounding her memories. She was sometimes angry, because her memories were all she had left of her family, and she felt as though she was peering through an old, dusty window of a dilapidated house, cobwebs glimmering in her eyes, and a mighty crack spider-webbing across the grime caked glass. She remembered some things clearer than others. She remembered the day she broke Armin's arm, the feeling of his fragile bone crunching like a dead leaf between her fingers. She remembered the sound he had made, the agonized whimpering of a boy who had never done anyone any wrong.

She had never been given any procedure or surgery to acquire her strength. There were some vague memories of Dr. Jaeger asking her some questions, questions she could not recall, and then smiling at her and muttering about how she was a wonderful scientific anomaly. Mikasa had sat quietly on the check-up table, playing idly with the thin sanitation paper beneath her, and she had wondered what that meant.

"This is Levi," Dr. Jaeger said a few days after the preliminary testing of her powers. Mikasa had been told to stay away from Armin, and though on the inside her heart had given a shudder, and she was surprised at how broken she felt when she realized she would not be able to apologize or comfort the boy. Eren wouldn't talk to her at all because of it, so she just avoided both of them to save herself from more heartache.

They had taken her to a room she had never been in before, some kind of gymnasium with all sorts of weights and mats and bars lining the walls and floor. Mikasa had felt a certain degree of curiosity, because they did not have gym classes at the institution for some reason. The lone man in the room had been doing a series of complicated looking flips on the high bar, and Mikasa had watched with mild awe as he'd caught himself easily, his palms clamping against the bar with a clap of white dust coughing into the air upon impact, and suddenly he was twisting again, airborne and flipping fluidly as he landing on his feet at the sight of them.

The man had given Dr. Jaeger a scathing look, and Mikasa's eyes had wandered from his face to the intricately inked tattoo that seemed to flutter with life at the subtle twitch of the man's bared back muscles. Mikasa recognized that the tattoo was of wings, a painstakingly perfect set of overlapping blue and white wings. Mikasa's fingers had closed around the cloth around her wrist subconsciously, which hid the tattoo her mother had given her as a child.

When Levi had spotted Mikasa, his scathing look had melted into something rather blank and uncertain. He'd snatched a shirt from one of the glossy blue mats that covered to ground and yanked it over his head, wandering over the Dr. Jaeger silently.

"You shouldn't bring your kid to work," Levi said, his voice a vaguely chilly monotone. Mikasa had been a little confused, because Dr. Jaeger was not her father, nor did he pretend to be. He cared about her, yes, Mikasa could sense that, but she didn't consider him any sort of substitute for the father she had lost.

"Levi, this is Mikasa," Dr. Jaeger said, his hand resting against the crown of Mikasa's head as she stared up at Levi. "She's like you."

_She's like you_. That had been the point where alarms had gone off in Mikasa's mind. She looked up at Levi, and she realized something with a cold and numb thought whistling through her mind. _This experiment is bigger than us_. And for a moment she felt the urge to whirl around and run away, run toward Eren and beg him to talk about going outside again.

Levi had looked at her, and she could sense he had the same thought. His hollow blue eyes had sparked with something furious, and his brow had furrowed as he'd stared at her face.

"Excuse me?" Levi asked quietly, never looking away from Mikasa's face. She felt uncomfortable very suddenly.

"She's like you," Dr. Jaeger repeated. "Just like you, really. Do you mind if we run some blood tests to determine—"

"We're not related," Levi cut in firmly. "What the fuck—" He broke off, and glanced down at Mikasa with a grimace. "— I mean… frick… do you mean by _she's like me_?"

"She has the same readings as you," Dr. Jaeger said. "You said you were nine when your power manifested, yes? Well, she's just the same. Same power, same age. A completely natural progression of enhanced strength, and possibly stamina, though we can't be sure until we test her capacity to—"

"Stop." Levi had looked very angry. Mikasa had felt his anger, and she would continue to feel it every time Levi looked at her, because his rage was cyclical and immense, and there was no escaping it. "Just stop. Why the fuck do you have a child involved in all this? Where are her parents? Why are you collecting data from her?"

"Levi, calm down," Dr. Jaeger said. "You've been made aware that you're not the only subject here."

"I'm a fucking adult!" Levi's arm whipped out as he pointed at Mikasa with a vicious amount of accusation. "I consented to this! Did she? Did she tell you could poke and prod at her until she broke? Did she sign any papers, did she have any choice? Does she even _know_?"

"Levi," Dr. Jaeger said, a sharpness in his voice that Mikasa had never heard before. "From now on, you are going to teach Mikasa how to control her strength."

"I don't hurt kids," Levi said, and it was a strong hiss of emotion that emerged from his lips, punctuated by the widening of his hollow eyes.

"You don't have a choice," Dr. Jaeger replied. Mikasa blinked up at him in shock, and he smiled down at her sadly. "Don't worry, Mikasa. This is for your own good, and everyone else's. If you can't control your strength, then you'll just hurt more people like you hurt Armin. Do you want that to happen?"

"No," Mikasa said. She looked up suddenly, feeling desperate, and she gazed at Levi imploringly. "No. Please, no."

Levi had watched her, his expression stony. "Tch," he'd scoffed, averting his gaze.

Dr. Jaeger smiled at her, and ruffled her hair. "I'll let you two get to know each other, then," he said, turning away from them.

Mikasa watched him, and she called after him with a small, trembling voice. "Dr. Jaeger?" The man turned back to look at her, his glasses gleaming. "Am I allowed to speak to Armin?"

Dr. Jaeger sighed, and adjusted his glasses as he shook his head. "Mikasa, you know the situation… is delicate," said the man. And Mikasa did know, though she couldn't quite recall why. "But if you prove to me that you're making progress…"

"I will," Mikasa swore.

He smiled. "Then of course," Dr. Jaeger said. He turned away, and Mikasa was left to Levi.

The man watched her for a moment, and then pointed to the wall of weights. "Pick up the heaviest one and bring it over to me."

Mikasa eyed him warily, but obliged for the sake of being able to reconcile with Armin.

To say she knew or understood Levi during her time at the institution would be a lie. She merely tolerated him at the time, and allowed him to teach her how to control her newfound strength. Other than sparring, there was no physical interaction between them, and they only exchanged a few words every week. Mikasa didn't care about Levi, but he was at the very least helpful.

"Do you even try when you fight me?" Mikasa asked one day. She remembered that he had been wrapping up his knuckles, because he was going to teach her how to pull her punches.

"Nope," Levi said, tossing her the roll of gauze at her. She had caught it, and frowned, feeling inadequate and silly very suddenly. She stared at the gauze, and slowly wrapped it around her hands, intentionally fumbling and winding it the wrong way. Levi glared at her, and she could sense his irritation. He'd wandered over to her slowly, shaking his head with a sever degree of incredulity, as though she was the most idiotic person he had ever met. "I thought I taught you how to wrap—"

He caught her wrist before her fist could connect with his jaw, but he could not block her knee as it collided with his stomach. She blinked as his body buckled a little, a slight grunt of pain escaping his lips. She stared up at him, allowing herself to feel a little glimmer of pride before Levi backhanded her across the face so hard she went skidding across the floor.

Levi had begun to show an actual interest in fighting her after that, though.

Mikasa had wanted an escape so badly, but she it had never occurred to her that Levi would be the one to make it possible. And she still did not forgive him for it. She knew that he was responsible for the institution's collapse, because he had told her not long after rescuing her, and to this very day she blamed him for being the separation between her and her family.

Levi had explained to her, after finding her frantically stumbling through a blazing hall in search for Eren and promptly grabbing her, that he and another man had planned an escape from the institution with the intention of crippling the entire program. Mikasa had been enraged, but the smoke had strangled her to the point where she could barely wriggle out of his grasp, let alone punch him.

Anyway, that had all been about five years ago. Her clearest memories were of Levi, for some reason, and Mikasa had to suppose it was because she spent a lot of time with him before and after escaping. He'd become her only means of survival, and though she had a bad track record of running away to find Eren and Armin, she always came back, and he never minded, and Mikasa decided that there were worse people in the world than Levi.

A few days before, Mikasa had been sitting in the kitchen of her and Levi's tiny apartment in downtown Chicago. She'd grabbed the box of cocoa puffs from beside Levi's bowl, and she'd fished through the box with her bare hand, staring at Levi expectantly, as she did every morning, as she popped a few chocolaty spheres into her mouth. He looked up at her sharply, and snatched the box from her fingers, whacking her over the head with the rolled up newspaper.

"Get a bowl, you fucking pig," Levi had snarled at her. Mikasa obliged without comment. She did this every morning to check how lucid Levi was. Mikasa began to notice that whenever he was feeling really, really low he didn't notice when she did something unsanitary. It was then that Mikasa had to begin to worry, because Levi had been clean now for about three years.

"What did I miss?" Mikasa asked, swirling her cocoa puffs around in the milk until it became a faint, powdery brown color.

"Eight muggers, three rapists, one thief," Levi said. He took a sip of his tea and unfolded the paper, while Mikasa began to focus on the television. "Did you finish your paper?"

"Mhm," Mikasa hummed, her spoon protruding from her lips a she took the remote and turned up the volume on the news. Levi grimaced, because, as he put it, it was too early to listen to how horrible the world was. Mikasa pulled her spoon from her lips, never looking at Levi. "So now I can go on patrol again."

"I guess."

Mikasa glared at him. He had forbidden her from vigilantism, which was a pastime they had both taken up post-institution, whenever he found out that she'd been neglecting her homework. Which, thanks to the internet, was pretty often nowadays. He told her that she had to go to college, or else he was kicking her out, and she had replied that that was fine, because she could easily live on her own, and Levi had told her that she was bluffing because she'd never truly tried, and she was definitely going to college, and that was the end of that discussion.

They had decided to take up vigilantism because after a few months on the run, they had both agreed to look further into what the institution was actually for. When Mikasa had told Levi that she could barely remember her life before the institute, he had gotten very angry, like he tended to whenever Mikasa talked about the other kids who had been there. Apparently Levi had not known the extent of which the experiment had gone. After some persuading he had agreed to help her track down the other children, if only because he thought their powers could be dangerous.

Levi had told Mikasa that they would use their real names, and if anyone came after them, they'd deal with it then. But no one had ever come after them.

Maybe no one was looking.

Mikasa dropped her spoon, and it clattered against her bowl. On the television, someone was interviewing a physicist. For a moment, Mikasa had thought she had heard the name _Eren Jaeger_.

Levi looked up. His eyes moved toward the television, and Mikasa knew he had heard it too. Mikasa quickly grabbed the remote again and turned the television up some more, her heart pounding rapidly in her chest, and she clenched the remote in both hands as the physicist laughed, at whatever the interviewer had just said.

"_Oh, yeah_," said the physicist. "_I did it last year, because it's gotten to the point where I don't think I can imagine my life without him in it, and I only waited because it was always Eren's choice, y'know_?"

Mikasa held her breath. _Eren_, she thought, her cheeks flushing with excitement. _Eren, my best friend, my Eren, alive and happy. God, please, please, please_…

"_How did he come into your care, Ms. Zo__ë_?" the interviewer asked.

The physicist smiled. "_Call me Hange_," they said. "_Please. And, um, well I actually found him about five years ago on the side of the road_."

The interviewer laughed. "_Like a puppy_?"

"_He's exactly like a puppy_," Hange said, beaming. "_He's gonna pitch a fit that I'm talking about him like this, because he doesn't like it, but he's an amazing kid, and I'm really lucky to have him in my life_."

"Levi," Mikasa said as the interviewer returned to physics. "Who is that?"

"Ask google," Levi said, taking a sip of his tea and watching the television. Mikasa scowled at him, and pulled her phone closer to her. "Looks like a big shot."

"Hange Zoë," Mikasa said. "She has her own website."

"That's sickening." Levi took another sip of tea, studying the television with a tilt of his head.

"She apparently got really rich over the last few years because of the dozens of groundbreaking inventions she's patented," Mikasa said, scrolling through the page idly. "People have been comparing her to the likes of Edison and Einstein."

"Edison stole from Tesla, and Einstein was responsible for the atomic bomb," Levi said dully.

"Edison still introduced the light bulb whether you like it or not," Mikasa said. "And Einstein felt bad about that."

"Doesn't bring back the millions of lives he was responsible for taking."

Mikasa frowned. They'd gotten into this morality fight a few times before. It was always the same. "It ended a war," Mikasa said.

"Yeah," Levi said, glancing at her. "I didn't say it was wrong."

Mikasa's head snapped away from Levi's, and she shook her head in disbelief. "I don't understand you," she declared.

"Ditto, shitface."

Mikasa turned her eyes back toward her phone. "Oh," Mikasa said. "Apparently they mostly prefer not to be referred to with gendered pronouns."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means don't call them "she" or "he", just call them "they"," Mikasa said, continuing to read along.

"Oh," Levi said. He took another sip of his tea, and glanced at the television.

Mikasa continued to read until she found what she was looking for. "Levi," Mikasa said, never looking up from the phone. Her eyes were widening as she read. _"'— in 2008, Zo__ë__ took in an orphaned child they'd found while driving, and in 2012 they'd adopted Eren Jaeger as their son.'_"

"Well," Levi said, setting down his teacup. "Shit."

"Levi," Mikasa said, twisting in her seat to face him. Her heart was thudding so hard that she could hear it thundering, and feel it against her throat. She felt a little dizzy, and a little giddy, and she thought she might throw her arms around Levi's shoulders and hug him because she was just so happy, and she couldn't contain it. "Levi!"

"I heard," Levi said, glaring at her.

"They live in Manhattan," Mikasa said, rising in her feet, She ran her fingers through her hair, and looked around her hurriedly. "We have to go. Right now. Let's go."

"We are not going to Manhattan this fucking second, Mikasa," Levi said in a firm, irritated voice.

"Why not?" Mikasa whirled around to face him, towering over him as he sat. "You can do it. You're strong enough."

"I'm not carrying you to Manhattan, you crazy bitch," Levi said with a scoff. "Just… sit down. It's your first week of school, and you're already behind."

"Don't pretend to be my fucking father," Mikasa snapped. He looked at her with his dull gaze, and passive expression, and Mikasa wanted to punch him. "If you cared about me at all, you'd get your ass up and take me to Manhattan to see Eren _this fucking second_."

"Well I guess I don't care about you." Levi set down his teacup, and bowed his head. "Go get dressed. I'm taking you to school."

"I'm not going to school," Mikasa said. She took a step back on impulse when he stood, and she could almost feel his satisfaction. "And you can't take me to school anyway, you don't have a car."

"I'll walk you to the bus stop."

"Are you really that determined for me not to see Eren?" Mikasa asked furiously.

"Are you really so fucking stupid," Levi asked, looking up at her sharply, "that you can't give me a chance to think before you make your goddamn holy judgment?"

Mikasa stood, stunned and a little embarrassed, and she looked at Levi with wide eyes. "You're thinking about it?" she asked.

"Just go to school," Levi said. "It won't kill you to just go for today. Let me take care of this."

And for once, Mikasa did what she was told.

School had been hell that day because she couldn't focus on anything beyond writing her name, and even then her first period teacher had to give her a pen and paper because she'd forgotten her bag at home. She'd been pulled after class three consecutive times by her English, Biology, and Spanish teachers, who had all asked her if everything was alright at home. She had said yes, and asked if she could go now, because she really didn't want to be late for class. It wasn't until her Algebra teacher, who she'd had in seventh grade, had pulled her aside that she really began to realize how delicate her situation was.

"Mikasa," the man said. "Listen to me. If your father isn't… right… you need to tell someone."

"He's not my father," Mikasa stated, as she usually did when someone made that misconception. "And he's fine. And even if he wasn't, I'd deal with it."

"Mikasa, that's the point," the man said with a sigh. "You're only fifteen. You shouldn't _have_ to deal with it."

"With all due respect, sir," Mikasa said dryly, "I may not hold Levi in the highest regard, but as my legal guardian he's actually competent, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't judge him too harshly."

Her teacher studied her for a few moments, and sighed. "I don't want you to fall behind, Mikasa. Try to focus."

"Yes, sir," Mikasa said dully. "Can I go to lunch, now?"

"Yeah, go on."

She'd been sitting at her lunch table for all of five minutes alone before a tray dropped in front of her. She blinked up at Jean Kirschstein, a boy who had sought Mikasa out the first day of school the year previous and kind of just followed her around until she asked him if he wanted to sit with her at lunch. She sometimes thought he had a speech impediment, but she realized that he never stuttered in class or around other people, so she figured he just probably had trouble talking around girls. He didn't stutter very much anymore, thankfully.

"I can't wait to get out of here," Jean declared. Mikasa watched him with a bored expression, and began to tear at her french-fries anxiously, never with the intention of eating them. "I'm going to get the fuck out of here, and get a nice scholarship somewhere that isn't a shithole."

Mikasa nodded idly. She knew his plans, and she knew they'd probably work out. Jean was a gymnast, to the point where he was nearly an acrobat. Cornell was already taking interest in him, as were a few other universities. Mikasa took classes with him sometimes, but she was usually busy, and he usually didn't need them.

"I'm serious," Jean said, his body hunching forward, his head tilting to catch her attention.

"Mhm," Mikasa said.

Jean gave a mighty sigh, and he said furiously, "You can do it too, you know, if you practiced more!"

"I'm busy."

"With _what_?" Jean's eyes darted across her face, but she did not look up from dissecting her fries. "Y-you can… I mean, I'm free on Saturday, if you wanna… uh… pr-practice with me, or—"

"I'm going out of town this weekend," Mikasa said, dropping her fry and scooping up another one as another tray appeared beside Jean's. A gentle little laugh spooked her out of her daze, and she looked up at the tanned, freckled face of Marco Bodt.

"Oh, not this again," Marco said, sitting down beside Jean. "You're supposed to practice with me this weekend, remember? I needed help with my Gainer like, last week."

"Shit." Jean blinked at Marco, and his eyes flew wide. "I blew you off. Why didn't you fuckin' remind me, or something, oh my god?"

"You were busy," Marco said, his smile dim. Marco was a nice boy, with a warm face and warm eyes, and Mikasa had always found his presence comforting in comparison to Jean, who had always made her just a little uncomfortable. Marco and Jean always reminded her of being around Armin and Eren, which was probably why she had never pushed them away. "Anyways, you're going out of town, Mikasa?"

"Yeah." Mikasa wiped off her hands on a napkin. "Soon."

"Where?" Jean blurted. He looked a little frantic. "For how long?"

"New York City," Mikasa said. "And… I don't know. It depends."

"New York!" Marco's eyes glittered. "Why are you going there? Do you have family there, or something?"

"Yes," Mikasa said quietly.

"Wait," Jean said, blinking at her. "I thought all your family was—"

"Jean," Marco hissed. Mikasa glanced at him, and nodded gratefully. "Sorry, Mikasa."

"No, it's fine." She looked to Jean. "He's not really my family. But he's the closest thing I have."

"Even closer than the little grandpa?" Jean asked. Jean had a bad habit of making fun of Levi, which Mikasa found amusing, but he had once insulted him accidentally to his face, and Levi had almost hit him, but to prevent some legal altercations Mikasa had done it instead. Mikasa had later apologized to Jean, bringing him an icepack for his jaw, and revealing how delicate her situation with Levi was. One wrong move, and Mikasa would be put into foster care. That was the reality of it.

"Infinitely closer," Mikasa murmured.

"Well that's good!" Marco gasped. "Though, you won't miss school, will you? No offense, Mikasa, but I really don't think you can afford—"

"It's the beginning of the year," Mikasa said. "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, she'll be fine," Jean said, waving offhandedly. "Totally. Anyway, did you guys see that video of Nio?"

Mikasa snapped to attention, a heavy chill flooding her chest as the name collided with her lungs, making it a little difficult to breathe. Nio. That's right. That's what she'd called herself when Levi had told her to make up a moniker. She was very careful not to be seen, but even if she was, her mask completely covered her face. She and Levi had agreed to wear masks bearing the faces of the Nio guardians, which she knew from vague memories of her mother's Buddhism lessons. Mikasa had styled her entire vigilante persona after the Nio guardians, while Levi kind of just looked like he hadn't tried very hard. Which, he hadn't. Both of them had assembled their personas through a series of thrift shops.

"There's a video of Nio?" Marco asked, blinking at Jean with wide eyes. "Wow, I didn't think anyone could catch her."

"Me either," Mikasa said dryly.

"Yeah, she's like, beating up this drug dealer, and a guy recorded her from the window of his shop." Jean pulled out his phone, and he continued to speak as he flicked through it. "It's so weird, because she doesn't look like she's got any powers or anything, like Rogue or Freiheit, but she just beats him to shit. I mean, I could do something like this if I wanted to."

"Yes," Mikasa said, eying Jean suspiciously. "And you could also be killed."

Marco looked between them, and he smiled with very little warmth. "Hey, Polymath hasn't got any powers," Marco reminded. "They do fine."

"Yeah, Polymath has all those gadgets, and shit," Jean said, turning his phone toward them. Mikasa could see the hazy video quality of a shaky phone recording. "Like Batman."

Mikasa hummed in response, and watched the video of herself in full costume. As Nio, she wore a tight black shirt they had found, which was made out of heavy Kevlar, and beneath that was a light, high-collared cotton blouse that ruffled in vague resemblance to the veins protruding from the necks of the popular depictions of the Nio guardians. She wore a golden band around her shoulders which connected at her chest, and attached to it was a sheer strip of fabric that framed her abdomen and fell to her waist, splitting in two and connecting at the base of her back where the scabbard of her sword was located. Strips of white and pale blue fabric were fastened around her hips, knotted tightly and billowing to her knees in a ripple of cloth. Because the cloths were only connected at her waist they rippled and shifted freely, allowing more mobility for her legs. One silvery hued satin strip was attached to the pummel of her sword, which she often grabbed onto mid-fight to manipulate and toss at whoever got in her way. It had only been used against her a handful of times, and even then she only had a scar or two as a result.

"Wow, look at that," Marco said, pointing to the swift spiral of Mikasa's body as she twisted the silver cloth around the drug dealer's neck and yanked with a reverse grip on her sword's hilt. "I don't think you could do that, Jean."

"Is that a challenge, Marco?" Jean asked, his voice low. Marco blinked at Jean, and he choked on his laughter.

"Um, no," Marco said. "Don't try it. On anyone. Please." Marco focused on the video again, and his eyes widened. "Whoa, was that a triple salto?"

"Yeah!" Jean pulled the phone back to him to look at the video, and Mikasa felt the urge to grab it and chuck it as far away as possible. "This is what I'm saying! I could totally do that!"

"While kicking a guy's ass?" Marco asked, smiling weakly. "Jean, you're great, yes, but do you have the focus to—"

"I am dead serious, I'll make a bet with you right now," Jean said, pausing the video. "I can definitely do exactly what Nio did."

"Nio was clearly trained differently than you," Mikasa said icily. "If you were smart, you'd realize that, and not try to mimic her."

Jean looked at her with wide eyes. Marco bowed his head, and said nothing, while Jean continued to gawk as though Mikasa had insulted him. "But…" Jean pocketed his phone, and he shook his head. "I know I can do it. That move is like… that's something I've mastered. Hell, didn't I teach both of you how to do it?"

Mikasa looked down at her tray, and she scowled. This wasn't going well. And she couldn't let either of them find out that she was Nio. That would be disastrous. "I think Nio is stupid," Mikasa declared. Both Marco and Jean looked at her sharply, Jean with confusion, and Marco with horror and awe. "She gets into all these fights, and it's not like she's bettering the world or anything by it. That drug dealer got out on bail a few days after she put him in jail. Her entire crusade is pointless, and frankly, I think people should stop paying attention to her."

"Oh," Jean said. He leaned back, and exchanged a glance with Marco. "Wow. I… I didn't realize you—"

"It's just my opinion," Mikasa cut in, taking a bite of one of her fries and chewing thoughtfully. "But vigilantes are pretty incompetent. Beating up a bad person and putting them away does not equate to goodness. It just… makes it seem like there's a balance where there clearly is not." Mikasa closed her eyes. "I don't think we should support them."

Mikasa did not look at them, or speak again for the rest of the lunch period. She left them to think about her words, and hoped she'd swayed their judgment somehow. She didn't want Jean and Marco making a huge mistake, and trying to follow in her footsteps, or something like that. She was only a vigilante because she wanted to find Eren and Armin, and that had gotten her some unwanted attention.

At the end of the day, she'd gotten text from Levi telling her not to take the bus. When she'd exited the school, there was a yellow Volkswagen Beetle that looked like it had been ripped right out of a 1970's intersection. Mikasa stood for a moment, the car looking vaguely familiar, and she continued to stare at it even after someone rolled the window down and called to her across the busy street, "Move your ass, you little brat!"

Mikasa stood for a few moments longer, and she flipped her middle finger up at him with an impassive expression. A few people glanced at her, but no one seemed to notice or care about the vulgarities. She noticed, as she moved closer to the car, that there was a woman in the front seat verbally berating not Levi, but an unfamiliar man who was sneering at her in response. From the backseat, Levi emerged, and he took her bag and tossed it into the car.

"Levi," Mikasa said, blinking down at him. "What—"

"Get in the fucking car," Levi said. Mikasa stared at him for a moment, and obliged. There were three duffle bags stuffed on the floor of the car, and Mikasa had to prop her feet up on one of them to fit. Levi got into the car beside her, and with that the car was off. Mikasa stared at the duo in the front seats, who were bickering noisily about manners, or something.

"Um," Mikasa said cautiously, glancing at Levi. His eyes were already out the window, staring into something far off, as though he could see the horizon somewhere between the high-reaching buildings around them. "Who…?"

"Oh, I guess you don't really remember me, huh?" The woman glanced in the rearview mirror, and Mikasa could see her smiling. She had short strawberry-blonde hair curled into loose ringlets around her ears and jaw, and warm brown eyes. Mikasa vaguely recollected seeing her before, but Mikasa memory was, admittedly, not the best. "It's Petra Ral. You two lived with me a few years ago."

"Oh," Mikasa said, her eyes widening. "Yes, I remember you. You cut your hair."

"So did you," Petra said with a short laugh. She jerked her thumb at the man in the passenger's seat. "This is my friend Auruo. He's a weapons specialist."

"I got your sword from him," Levi informed her, never looking away from the window.

"Oh," Mikasa said blankly. "Thanks. I guess. I like it a lot."

"Hm," Auruo said, twisting to look at her. He studied her face for a few moments before frowning. He seemed to have a perpetual frown, really. "Have you ever killed anyone with it?"

"Auruo!" Petra cried. "You don't ask people that!"

"I'm just curious," Auruo scoffed. "It's an honest question. I've heard a lot of rumors about Nio and Freiheit, and I want to know what's true and what's not."

"Mikasa has never killed anyone," Levi said dully. Mikasa sat awkwardly under Auruo's stare.

"Well, that's a relief," Auruo drawled. "Thought we were harboring criminals, or something."

"I'm going to kick you out," Petra growled. "I swear to god, if you don't shut up right now, I'm kicking you out right now and you can _walk_ to New York."

"Calm down, Petra," Auruo said, throwing his hands up and laughing shakily. "I was joking."

"You're being an asshole," Petra said. "To a fifteen year old girl, might I add, which makes you a _scumbag_."

"It's okay," Mikasa said. She looked at Levi with wide eyes. "We're really going to New York?"

Petra laughed, and Auruo gave another little scoff, and Levi glanced at her. "Of course," Petra said. "We've gotta find your friend, right?"

"Right…" Mikasa quickly buckled her seatbelt, and she nodded eagerly. "Right."

The rest of their journey had been rather uneventful. Petra and Auruo bickered, and Levi sat quietly beside Mikasa, never giving her a sign of what he was thinking. Levi was bad at emoting, and Mikasa knew that even when he tried to be affectionate it just came out weird. She took what she could get with him. And right now, she felt as though the man had bestowed upon her the most affectionate thing he possibly could manage without being intimate. And it made her truly happy.

Petra Ral was a skilled hacker, who had apparently had helped Nio and Freiheit out more than Mikasa had realized. Petra apologized profusely for letting the video of Nio leak onto the internet, because usually she was more on top of those things. Auruo supplied her and Levi with all their weapons, somehow, and for that Mikasa could tolerate him. Mikasa was curious as to how exactly Levi had met them, but she never asked. They ended up crashing at an apartment in Brooklyn that belonged to two guys, Gunther Schultz and Erd Gin.

Mikasa was informed that Levi had once been in a gang with all these people. In hindsight, it made sense. But Mikasa couldn't help but stare at Petra, who was laughing and complaining about Grad School over a beer, and wonder how old she had been when she'd been in this gang. Mikasa was then informed that Auruo was barely twenty one. _Does Levi just surround himself with people younger than him?_ Mikasa wondered. _Does he get a kick out of it?_

For the next day or so they tried just about everything. Getting a meeting with Hange Zoë, staking out their apartment building, even hacking. But not even Petra could get past Hange's security system, which seemed to trouble the entire gang. Even Levi. _What if something's wrong?_ Mikasa thought. _What if they're not really helping Eren at all?_

Mikasa was growing irritable and paranoid. Someone in the apartment seemed to notice, because by their third day in Manhattan, Petra had declared that she and Mikasa were going to go shopping. Mikasa initially refused, but Petra had convinced her that going out and looking for Eren was far more productive than sitting inside and waiting for a solution.

"You really don't remember me much," Petra said solemnly. She had braided her bangs back into her short hair, allowing Mikasa to see just how warm and bright her eyes were. The woman was very pretty, and she seemed to exude confidence and understanding. Mikasa wished her presence was more of a regularity.

"I do," Mikasa said. "I just don't remember you well."

Petra shrugged. "That's fine," she laughed, shrugging her tiny shoulders. They were walking around a mall, and had been for about an hour, though neither of them had bought anything. "I was still not quite on my feet back then. I lived with my dad. Do you remember him?"

"No…" Mikasa said quietly. "Sorry."

"No, don't be," Petra said with a sigh. "I love him to death, but wow. Did he give me shit for that one. I had to make up a story about how I knew Levi, but then my dad found out that I lied about Levi's age, and he thought we were—" Petra flushed suddenly, and she shook her head. "I mean, I had to tell my dad Levi was asexual to shut him up."

"Wait," Mikasa said, staring down at Petra. "What?"

Petra looked up at Mikasa with large eyes. "Wait, you didn't know?" The woman's mouth open, and she shook her head furiously. "It's not a big deal, but don't tell him I told you, because he gets really uncomfortable whenever sex is involved—"

"Why?" Mikasa was stunned. She'd known Levi for six years, and she had never known this fact about him. But now, upon this sudden revelation, she looked back and recalled uncomfortable silences when anyone ever had the guts to make advances toward him, and the unique brutality Levi always seemed to have toward rapists and pimps.

"I'm not really sure," Petra said slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's not my business knowing."

"Well," Mikasa said, "I think it's my business knowing."

"Ask him," Petra said. "He might tell you."

Mikasa glanced away with a frown. "Tch," she hissed. Petra gave a little laugh, and she shook her head in disbelief.

"You're a lot like him," Petra said with a smile. Mikasa blinked in surprise. "And not in that cheap way Auruo tries out, but like, you're actually genuinely just so much like him it's a little scary."

"Oh," Mikasa said. She didn't really know how else to respond. She studied her surroundings, and frowned a little. She didn't think she and Levi were much alike, but she had to suppose that living with him for so long had had a chameleon effect on her. It didn't matter much, though. It was probably better that they acted alike.

"I don't mean it in a bad way," Petra continued, shoving her hands into the pockets of her high-waisted jean shorts. Petra was astonishingly stylish, and Mikasa had been reluctant to admit her attraction to the clothing the woman had brought with her. And Mikasa didn't like fashion. She just liked clothes. Cheap clothes. Hoodies, and cardigans, and long skirts, and faded jeans. But Petra had a sense of style that was unparalleled to anyone else, as though she could throw on a tablecloth and have the confidence to walk down the street in it. She'd pull it off too. She was just that type of person. "Trust me, I don't. I think Levi is the most amazing person I've ever met. And from what I've seen, you have a lot of his good qualities, and not many of his bad ones."

"All his qualities are bad," Mikasa said bitterly. Petra barked a laugh, and Mikasa frowned.

"I guess to you, yeah," Petra said, smiling brightly. "But you grew up with him. You should have seen him when I knew him." She shook her head, glancing around the mall with a sad shake of her head. "He was a mess."

"More of a mess than he is now?"

Petra bounced idly on the balls of her feet. "He told me he slipped up a few years ago," Petra said, glancing up at Mikasa. Mikasa stayed quiet, and her mind was filling up with the distant, hazy images of a dim apartment building, smaller and dingier than the one they now owned despite all attempts to tidy it. She remembered vaguely asking what the pills had been for, and Levi had never quite been honest with her, but she had been quick enough to notice his dependence on them. Levi had been clean for about three years because of an incident that neither of them liked to remember, but it was flooding back to her with a vivid burst, as though someone had wiped down the dusty window into the hollows of her memory and illuminated the dank and dreary catacombs where she kept all her unwelcomed and unwanted experiences.

She recalled tears, the first and last time she had ever cried over Levi, and screaming, and frantic rattling of a very still body, and she recalled checking for a pulse and finding one with a bewildered, breathless relief, and clinging to the knowledge that Levi was alive, and Levi was strong, stronger than her, stronger than _everyone_, even though she hated to admit it, and so Mikasa had punched him. She hefted Levi over her shoulders, carried him into the bathroom, propped him up against the tub, and punched him until her knuckles cracked open, and his lips had torn against his teeth and her bones, and his nose had bent, and blood and splashed against the grimy, off-white porcelain tub, and she'd punched him until his hollow blue eyes had cracked open dazedly, staring up at her without recognition or regard, simply gazing and not quite seeing.

Mikasa and Levi had been through a lot together. But there had never been an instance in their relationship where Mikasa had loved him with such a hopeless, naïve intensity, and loathed him so fervently as she did in that moment when she had to call 911, and been talked through forcing Levi to regurgitate opiates into a toilet.

"Slipped up," Mikasa repeated dully. "He almost killed himself. He was stupid and careless."

Petra paused, her expression crumpling as she gazed at Mikasa's face. Mikasa glanced back at her, and it was clear that she had struck a cord. "That's very ignorant to say," Petra said softly. "Mikasa, Levi has been struggling with substance abuse for years. Even the strongest man in the world has a weakness, and sometimes he needs support too."

Mikasa wasn't sure how to respond to that. She knew, of course, that Levi had a lot of problems. She had a lot of problems too. But it had never occurred to her that Levi's problems had pre-dated the institute. She had always assumed the opiates had been to ease whatever pain the experiments had put him through. But Petra made it out to seem like there had always been something in Levi's life that he'd tried to numb. And Mikasa couldn't help a vague, squirming concern knotting in her stomach as she glanced away guiltily.

"I was a twelve year old responsible for a thirty year old," Mikasa said quietly. "I'm allowed to be bitter about that."

Petra smiled, and Mikasa was stunned when the woman placed a hand on her arm. "Why don't we get something to eat?" Petra offered, glancing around quickly. "You can tell me a little bit more about his slip up."

"I don't want to," Mikasa said, shrugging Petra off. "It doesn't even matter. He's clean now."

Petra continued to smile, albeit with languid eyes, and she nodded. "Okay," Petra said. "We'll talk about something else. Like what it's like to be a superhero."

"I'm not a superhero," Mikasa mumbled, letting the small woman hook her arm around Mikasa's and lead her to an escalator.

"Are you kidding?" Petra laughed easily, as though their previous conversation had not even remotely perturbed her. "I mean, I kind of make it my job to watch out for videos of you. And, Mikasa, you are _definitely_ a superhero." Petra smiled up at her warmly, and Mikasa was stunned by how genuine and kind it was. "At least to me."

Mikasa blinked and looked down at her faded gray cut-off. "Thanks," she said quietly. "I guess."

They ended up getting pizza, and Petra began to talk about Grad School, and the classes she was missing, and Mikasa felt immensely guilty very suddenly. She had not realized that her quest to find Eren had uprooted anyone's life beyond hers and Levi's. But Petra was a real person, with a real life, with so much going for her beyond all of Mikasa's crazy bullshit. Petra was going to teach. Petra was supposed to study abroad next semester in Tokyo. Petra had her life together, had her own apartment, and her own friends, and yet here she was. Helping a stranger find another stranger, because an old friend had called her and asked her to.

_Why can't I be like that?_ Mikasa asked herself, staring at the woman as she explained the dynamics of her field. _Why can't I be normal, and go to college, and live on my own, and never play at capes and cowls again?_

Maybe it was Eren and Armin. Maybe she needed them in order to move on with her life. Maybe Mikasa was so desperate for completion that she couldn't find happiness in anything beyond the family that had been fractured five years before.

Maybe this entire ordeal had given her a glimpse into two possible futures for her. The world where she could be content and happy with the life she was lucky to still have, and grow up like a normal teenage girl. Or Mikasa could scour Manhattan until Manhattan was raw, and then keep searching and searching and desperately searching until finally the mask cracked and shattered, and when Mikasa looked in the mirror she would not see her vacant face, but the intricately carved exterior of Nio, and nothing more.

_The only future I want_, Mikasa thought, _is a future with Eren in it_.

In her daze, her mind fluttered freely into some restless void. She felt a tingling sensation, a familiar tug of icy fingers mentally latching onto her and closing a fist in order to fully grasp her thoughts. It was like someone had ran an ice cube down her bare spine, and let the water gather against her skin until her bones soaked it all up.

_Mikasa? _

A voice drifted through her thoughts, blissfully soft and gently wavering, like a radio out of focus. Mikasa stared at her food, blinking slowly. She frowned, and began to rub her arms from the chill. The voice was like an echo of her own. Nothing concrete, just a flicker in her mind, a blip in her train of thought, a nostalgic recollection of a sensation she hadn't felt in years.

_Mikasa?_

The voice was louder. It was clearer. Mikasa jumped, her palms slapping against the table as her neck craned around to search for whoever had whispered in her ear, tickling her senses and forcing her to gasp and grapple at her plastic knife in shock. Her eyes were flickering from side to side, trying to detect what exactly had snuck up on her.

"Mikasa?" Petra asked carefully. She sounded worried, and when Mikasa glanced at her, the woman's face was bemused. "What's wrong?"

"Did you hear that?" Mikasa asked, feeling a little out of breath and anxious. She wanted to hold someone's hand. She wanted the comfort of human touch to coincide with the mental intimacy. She wanted someone's forehead to brush against hers, two different palms fitting in her own, and two different voices laughing inside her head, two very different boys knowing her thoughts before she voiced them, and two best friends giving her their minds with all the trust and courage she could not muster anymore.

"Hear what?" Petra asked slowly. The hesitance in her voice was no longer worry. It was wary. Mikasa took a deep breath, and she shook her head, setting the knife down and rubbing her palms together.

"Nothing," Mikasa said, bowing her head. "It was just—"

A shot rang out. A gunshot that cracked and bled into a hundred screams. People were flying under tables, fleeing with the force of a stampede, screeching and bellowing and frantic. Chaos upon a single warning. Mikasa was too stunned to move, let alone think. When she gained control of her senses again, Mikasa jumped to her feet, and she recalled Levi's rules about civilian attire. No fighting. Just fleeing. But Mikasa had to get Petra to safety, and if that meant she had to fight, she was going to fucking fight.

"Mikasa, wait," Petra gasped as Mikasa grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the throng of people rushing toward the stairwell. Another gunshot rang out, and a voice bellowed, "Everyone on the ground!"

Mikasa froze. She looked down at Petra, who stood with large eyes and a rigid frame. They exchanged a glance, and came to a silent agreement. They very slowly genuflected with everyone else in the food court, raising their hands over their heads in surrender. When Mikasa looked around, she noticed that there were a lot of gunmen. A lot. She tried to count them, but she kept losing count, and when she started again there only seemed to be _more_.

"Don't worry," Mikasa whispered to Petra as the gunmen exchanged commands, bantered a little, spoke in hasty, mangled English, and Mikasa felt too unfocused to even care.

"I'm not," Petra whispered back. Mikasa looked at her, and Petra gave a weak smile. "New York's got it's own heroes, you know."

Mikasa blinked. "Spiderman…?" she whispered.

"No," Petra whispered gently back. "Rogue. And Polymath. Don't you keep up with any other caped crusaders?"

"Um…"

"Hey!" A gunman cried, his eyes roving the section of hostages that Mikasa and Petra were in. "You two! Anything you want to share?"

_You're holding that gun the wrong way, _Mikasa thought glumly_, so you're too stupid to be intimidating_. Mikasa raised her chin, and her mouth parted to say so.

_Mikasa, don't you dare! _

Her mouth clamped shut while Petra shook her head profusely. That tingly feeling had returned, but now it was more like a rush of electricity flitting through her brain, kissing her nerves and giggling madly as it tickled her senses and pulled at her thoughts like a playful child, yanking and twisting and forceful enough to be irritating.

Mikasa's breath hitched, and she looked around her, her eyes searching the faces in the crowd of hostages frantically to find that one familiar one, the only one that mattered at that moment. She tried to reach out mentally, to tug on that breach in her mind and follow the line to the brain of the boy she knew was here, in this room, feeding his thoughts directly into her head.

_Armin?_ Mikasa thought, broadcasting the thought with enough force to break apart the surface of a concrete building. She felt the mental line shudder at her intentional cry into the ether. She was stunned and confused, but mostly overjoyed. Her heart was beating very fast, and she couldn't stop looking around her to try and find her old friend's familiar face.

_Yes_, Armin replied, his voice trickling inside her head like beads of rain misting against a window. _It's me. I'm right behind you_.

Mikasa whipped her head around, but there were only hostages behind her, looking terrified and anxious and teary-eyed. _No_, Mikasa thought. _I don't_— She jumped, biting her tongue as she felt something warm and soft touch her hand. Fingers, tender and smooth without the rawness of calluses and scars that marred her own hands to detract from their warmth. Mikasa stared down at her left palm, which was twitching without command as an unseen hand closed around it. Armin's presence was palpable. Well, in her head, at the very least.

_You can't see me_, Armin said to her, _because I don't want you to. I figured out that I can trick peoples' brains into thinking I'm not really there, and now I'm invisible, but tangible. See? I mean, of course not, but you know what I mean._

"Oh…" Mikasa breathed. She tightened her hand around the invisible hand. It squeezed back, with all the gentleness of the tiny boy she remembered.

_I'm so, so glad to see you_, Armin said. She could hear him smiling in her head, and she smiled too, although it was wane and sad and a little alarmed. _I wish it was under different circumstances, though_.

"Ye—" Mikasa caught herself, and she responded uncertainly in her head with, _Yeah. I've been looking for you_.

_I know_, Armin said. His laughter was sweet, and it bounced around her head and trembled against the mental link. It was so strong that she felt it swooping in her chest, and she squeezed her eyes shut, a giddy smile pulling helplessly at her lips. _Your thoughts aren't exactly hidden. I didn't even need to touch you to figure that one out_.

_Oh_, Mikasa thought, staring down at her hand, which was clenching an invisible palm. _Is that why you're holding my hand? To read my mind better?_

_Oh, no_, Armin said. _I don't need physical contact to initiate a mindlink anymore. I just missed you, that's all_.

Mikasa stared down at her empty hand, feeling Armin's fingers intertwining with her own, and she closed her eyes and squeezed them. _Me too_. And for a moment, their link was empty, and neither of them could fill the empty space. There was no need to. There was comfort and Armin's presence, in Armin's touch, in the very essence of Armin's mind. It reminded Mikasa of safety and warmth, and she was so happy to have found it again. Now all they needed was Eren.

_It's weird, though_, Armin said. He sounded lofty and far away suddenly, and Mikasa could feel his bemusement seep into her brain, drizzling over her nerves and tingling her senses. _I can't read any of _their_ minds_.

"What?" Mikasa whispered, glancing behind her. As expected, she saw no one. She caught herself once again speaking out loud, and she glanced at Petra. The tiny woman was studying Mikasa curiously. _Who?_

_Everyone who has a gun_, Armin replied quietly. His voice echoed, and wavered, and she felt the connection between them weakening as though his mind was drifting away. He let go of her hand, and it felt very cold as it drooped against the floor. _It's just… this happens with certain people, where I can't read their minds, but it's never happened with a group of people before. It's incredible. Except now I can't talk them down._

Mikasa sat for a few moments, staring at her hands. She thought about Petra, who sat beside her without any fear, and Mikasa knew she had to do something. But the trouble with acting on impulse was that she could easily end up harming a civilian. That wasn't a good enough reason to get into a fight. _What do these people even want? _Mikasa thought bitterly.

_I wish I could tell you_, Arimin said. He sounded sad. Mikasa could still feel the connection, the spidery link between his mind and her own, but it wasn't as influential on her emotions as it was when he was holding her hand. For a fleeting, terrifying moment she imagined Armin getting caught in the line of fire. Her eyes flitted behind her, desperate to catch sight of Armin's round, exuberant face.

_Mikasa, please don't worry about me_, Armin thought desperately. _I don't need you to protect me. This isn't the first time I've had to talk down someone without using my powers_.

_You're not trying_, Mikasa responded firmly. _I'll just beat them all up_.

_Bad idea_, Armin sighed. _How many gunmen are there, anyway? You can't take them all on your own without someone getting hurt. And don't forget, you're still human despite all your strength. _

_Do you have a plan, Armin?_ Mikasa asked, feeling a little prickly. _Do you know that you'll be able to talk these people out of this? Because I think they'll just shoot you on the spot_.

_I have other tricks besides telepathy, you know_, Armin said. _And anyways, I always have a contingency plan_.

Mikasa nodded. _Okay_, she said. _I trust you, Armin_. She almost felt his smile in the flutter of emotion that passed through their mindlink. The rush of awe and affection stunned her, because she didn't think it mattered all that much.

The sound of struggling made everything still, a fearful calm passing over them as suspense dug its claws deep into their skin. Mikasa craned her neck to see as gunshots rang out, and the hostages all gave out a universal cry, dozens of bodies ducking for cover. _Armin, what's going on?_ Mikasa asked, as a voice bellowed, "Hey! Recognize me, huh?"

_I don't know_, Armin said. _I—_

Their connection spluttered, crackling and breaking apart with a vivid burst of static. Like a telephone cord being cut, there was a vacancy in Mikasa's head where Armin's voice had once been, where his presence had been felt. Mikasa felt it like she felt a limb being severed. She felt it shake her soul.

"Hold on," a woman said. Mikasa didn't care, though. She turned her head to search for Armin, and saw a pair of legs flutter into existence directly behind her. They disappeared almost immediately, but Armin was visible for just enough time for Mikasa to peer up at him and see his face. He looked stunned, and Mikasa could almost sense his emotions fluctuating. Mikasa knew that Armin's power dealt with focus. Unless Armin was physically touching someone, a connection could not be kept steady if Armin could not keep his attention on controlling the power. He had once tried to explain it to her, that minds were like networks, and Armin could sort of just flick through them like television channels and select which ones to read and connect with.

His voice fluttered back into her mind, sounding breathless and feeling like a pulse as it thudded delicately against the bars of Mikasa's thoughts. _It's Eren_, Armin said. Mikasa's pulse echoed the thrum of his voice, and her body buckled as she digested his words, and she forgot that Petra was beside her, and she forgot that there were gunmen everywhere, and she forgot everything all at once, even how to breathe.

"Eren," Mikasa breathed, jumping to her feet. Petra gave a little noise of objection, and looked around wildly. Mikasa saw Eren's profile, and saw that he was taller and broader and blinking around dazedly, as though there was something he needed but couldn't quite see. _Armin_, Mikasa realized. _Armin, he's looking for you. Link us. Link all of us. The three of us can do this_.

_I'm going to try_, Armin thought. _Let me get his hand_—

Five shots broke Armin's words, piercing them and shattering them across Mikasa's mind, allowing them to burst like shrapnel. And, with that shrapnel, Mikasa's world ended. It blew apart, an explosion of emotions crushing her lungs as she stood, Eren's name leaving her lips in a sharp, angry, anguished shriek, and she could do nothing as the image of Eren's blood flying through the air and splashing against the tangible surface of an invisible boy hissed and spat at her as it branded itself into her heart.

Mikasa's entire world was spinning. She couldn't function. She wondered vaguely if she would even feel herself being shot. She wondered if she even cared, or if she was even alive anymore. There was no future anymore. Not without Eren. And she was struck by the vision of Eren dropping to his knees, Armin's body fluttering in and out of existence. Blood was framing his face. It was staining a pristine looking white cloak that hung around his head and shoulders.

She scanned the room for the shooter that had blown away Mikasa's entire life in five rapid bursts, but she could not find them. Armin had let out a scream, a scream even more agonized and shrill than her own, and the scream rattled the air and sent Mikasa's hands flying to her ears. Everyone around her did the same, because the scream wasn't anything natural, and it was pulsating through the strangled link that was still half-formed between Armin's mind in her own. But the link was spiraling and clicking, collapsing on another mind, and another, and she could _feel_ them. Armin screamed, and his voice split through every mind in the room with the ferocity and anguish of a dying, rabid animal.

Mikasa fell to her knees, her eyes squeezing closed and her heart racing. She couldn't think any longer. There was no thinking in the midst of Armin's rage. There was only bearing the pain, and the relentless battering of emotion swinging down like the blade of an axe against her brain. Mikasa's fingernails were digging at the sensitive skin behind her ears as she fought back tears, her voice joining a hundred as everyone in the room shrieked in pain at the vicious berating of Armin's screaming inside their heads.

_Eren_, Mikasa thought, her fingers clawing at the tile as her senses turned dim, and her vision blinked out.


	3. a sound mind in a sound body

_**mens sana in corpore sano**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. iv Kalendas Septembres, 2766 A.U.C._

There was a sense of vacancy in his mind. The sort of shady, eerie hollowness of a school at night, or a bar in the daytime. He recalled things from memories that were not his, while his own memories were glossed over with a gleaming white paint, glimmering sadly and faintly. The institution felt like a bad dream. Sometimes he woke up screaming, and he couldn't be sure why. His was a power that could not be discerned easily. It could barely be explained.

As a rule, he didn't talk about the institution. Neither did Erwin Smith, the man who had admitted to blowing it up. Armin had escaped by following Erwin out of the building, and following him until the man finally noticed that there was a child tailing him. At the time, Armin had not been thinking of Eren and Mikasa. At the time, all Armin had been thinking about was surviving.

It was the sort of regret that appeared like a blot in his vision. And then it grew. Armin tried his best to reach out through the established link between himself and his friends, but there was nothing. Just… a vacant, heavy void that hung heavily where two distinctive presences should be. It was worse whenever he had to let other people in his head. He didn't like the feeling, the unfamiliarity and the acrid aftertaste, leaving him feeling worn and senseless.

The truth was, Armin's powers were pretty volatile. Without Mikasa and Eren to share the burden, Armin was forced to experience the vicious backlash of being a telepath. There was loneliness in bearing the thoughts of others. Upon leaving the institution, Armin had to face the exposure to thousands of voices daily, and feel them squirming inside his head. He had to focus to make them all stop. And worst of all, he couldn't control the telepathy upon physical contact. The thing that had made him, Mikasa, and Eren so close before was now his downfall. Someone could brush their knuckles against the back of his hand utterly by accident, and Armin could gain a rush of memories and anxieties while giving up his own frantic thoughts. It usually ended up with Armin in the nurse's office, curled up with his knees hugged to his chest.

Armin was eleven the first time it happened. Erwin had sent him to a public school after promising to take care of him, and Armin was immediately apprehensive of his classmates. He didn't like the way their thoughts felt in his head. He didn't like the heaviness of their stares whenever Armin answered a question correctly (always), and he didn't like how simple they were. He didn't like the emptiness inside him, and he didn't like that no one seemed to understand.

He'd been elbowed off a swing on the playground, and the book in his lap, a collection of Cicero's letters, collapsed in the sand as he went skidding on his hands and knees. He'd been stunned in the first place, slumping in the dirt as he peered at his skinned palms. Grains of sand burned his shredded flesh, and tears prickled his eyes. He wished, not for the first time, that he hadn't run from the burning building. He wished he had gone looking for Eren and Mikasa. He wished he knew how to find them, if they were…

They were alive, though. Armin felt as though he would know if they were dead. Their connection was too strong.

The recess monitor had seen Armin fall, and she'd come to see if he was all right. She had bent down and taken Armin's hands gingerly to look at the damage. Upon her touch, Armin felt the world screech around him, the air hot and palpable as a barrage of thoughts tumbled into his head, hissing softly in his ears at a speed that he could not fathom, and he felt his fingers shaking as a filthy taste spread across his tongue, bitter and burning and blackening his teeth like tar. He felt the words on his hands, bleeding through her skin into his and contaminating his nerves.

He had screamed, and she had screamed, and he'd torn himself out of her grasp and flung himself from the playground, tears streaming down his face and her panicked thoughts sledging through his mind. It wasn't like reading a mind. Reading minds was easy, like hearing bits of conversations in passing. It was easy to tune in and out. But what had happened was more like the woman's entire mind had bled from her skin, and washed over Armin, and he could taste her in his mouth and feel her on his skin, and he knew she could feel him in her head too. She knew him, and she didn't understand, and she was scared.

He'd ended up collapsing at the front of the school, clutching his chest and heaving. He felt pressure on his lungs, as though something was constricting his ribs, pressing onto them until the felt ready to give and cave in on him. He was rasping and shaking and sobbing, his bloody hands scrubbing helplessly at his face, and his eyes, hoping to wash away the stain of the woman's mind, hopelessly digging at his head in vain to erase the connection, to erase the sensation of invasion that clung to him, bruising his brain and bleeding from his heart.

The ambulance had been called, and Armin had been given an inhaler, and told he had asthma, and he was bandaged up and sent home. Erwin was a tall, charismatic man, who smiled when need be and masked his true feelings better than Armin ever could. Erwin had been affectionate with Armin enough in front of the doctors, but when Armin was alone with him in the car, the man had looked Armin straight in the eye and said, "We need to control this."

Armin could say nothing, do nothing. He was ashamed, and close to tears again. He rolled his new inhaler in his hands, his lips trembling, and Erwin eyed him. Streetlights rolled by, illuminating the tears that tumbled onto Armin's cheeks as he hiccupped, and curled up in the front seat, sniffling into the sleeve of his cardigan. Armin looked up, very startled, as Erwin pulled the car over to a curb. He stared ahead of him for a moment, and then glanced up at Erwin fearfully.

"I-I-I—" Armin choked, his eyes flickering down to the bandages on his palms. "I don't… I just…"

"Take a deep breath," Erwin said. Armin did, sucking in air and exhaling it shakily. "Tell me exactly what happened."

"I don't know," Armin gasped, clapping his hands over his eyes. "That's the prob-b-blem!"

"You've never acted this way before when reading a mind," Erwin said, his pale gaze flickering over Armin's face. "So what's different here? What happened differently?"

Armin wiped at his eyes, and shrugged. "It felt— I… I don't know, it felt bad, like I couldn't breathe, and I could just… I could taste all the bad things just rolling on my tongue, all the bad thoughts and feelings, and she could too, and it was so, so, so _awful_…"

Erwin nodded slowly. "It's okay to not be in control all the time," Erwin said gently. "But you sent that woman into shock, whatever you did. So now we need to be more attentive to how powerful you really are."

"But," Armin said faintly, "I'm not powerful…"

Erwin stared at him. He twisted his body in his seat to face Armin, and he reached forward and took Armin's tiny hand. Erwin was unreadable. Armin had theories as to why, but it was still amazing to him that Erwin's mind was completely out of his reach. And it was calming too.

"You are very powerful," Erwin said, his large hand wrapping around Armin's dainty fingers. "You have an extraordinary gift, Armin. I know you think it's scary, but I need you to accept it." Erwin's eyes flashed in the darkness. "Or else you might become very dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Armin couldn't help but laugh scornfully, his voice thick and his tears lessening. "Me?"

"Yes," Erwin said. "And me. And anyone else who was in that facility. We are all dangerous people, and we all must embrace that fact. Now, Armin, do me a favor and make the car invisible. I want to catch the evening news."

"The entire _car_?" Armin squeaked.

Erwin turned his face back ahead of him. "Yes," he said, a mild smile on his lips. "Can you do it?"

Armin was shaking in his seat. "I…" He took a deep breath. _Focus_, he reminded himself. "I can try."

They made it home in time for the evening news, though Armin felt a little lightheaded, and Erwin had to carry him in. The man apologized, though Armin could not be sure if Erwin was genuinely sorry for pushing Armin's power. Armin decided he liked it that way.

Erwin began sending Armin to school with gloves on when Armin was twelve. Armin began to appreciate them, though sometimes there was no way around brushing someone's skin. By that point Armin was used to the nausea and disgust that came with an unwanted mindlink. It was a part of him. And he hated it. He hated it so much that he did anything he could to avoid physical contact. He was excused from gym class due to asthma, and he ducked away from people in hallways, careful to never be touched. It marked him as odd, and rumors began to circulate that he was afraid of germs, or antisocial, or something. Eventually people seemed to get over it, and he made friends, but there was always a bit of a stigma to his condition.

They had begun sleuthing when Armin was thirteen. Erwin had a precognitive power that Armin still couldn't quite comprehend, and all of a sudden he was using it to stop massive crimes before they happened. And Armin was helping. They tracked down criminals, locked them up, talked them down, and never lifted a finger against them. Armin and Erwin had no need for violence. Their power was in the mind, and in the mind it stayed. The public had given them their own monikers when the media had finally caught them (a year and a half after they had begun using their powers for heroism). Erwin, whose power had somehow been leaked as precognition, was called Augur. No one had ever really seen him. Armin kept him invisible, though they both had acquired costumes to suit the bill. Erwin wore a short black cloak, and Armin wore the same one in white. Their costumes were the same, with the color inverted. Armin's suit was black, but his sides were streaked with white. His arms were white as well, though inky words were scrawled across the fabric as though written with a thick marker in Armin's own handwriting. The words moved around the white fabric, constantly changing to suit Armin's thoughts. Erwin didn't have this detail in his own costume. He'd developed it just for Armin, and Armin thought it was the most amazing thing he owned.

The media called him Cicero. It was because once, during a hostage situation, Armin had made himself visible before the shooter. And he'd talked. And Armin could not recall what he had said, but he remembered the words spewing from his lips, the calm, aggressively empty words that had gone on and on and on, catching the undivided attention of everyone in the room as Armin read the man's face, and scanned through his thoughts, and made words appear with a quiet fury. His voice had echoed, and his words had hit home.

And when he was done speaking, the gunman had turned the gun and put the barrel between his teeth.

"What did I do wrong?" Armin lamented later to Erwin. The boy stared at his fingers, watching words appear rapidly, a flutter of literature curling across his fingers. He thought he recognized a few lines from _A Tell-Tale Heart_, and he had to close his eyes to keep himself from crying.

"Nothing," Erwin replied. "Do you think you did anything wrong?"

"That man died," Armin murmured, never looking up. "I did that to him. I made him kill himself."

"That was his own choice," Erwin said. "You aren't at fault here, Armin. You saved a lot of people."

_Yeah_, Armin thought numbly. _But did I have to take a life to do that?_

He never quite got over it. He continued to try and save people, and continued to feel hopelessly lonely despite all the good things Armin had. Erwin wasn't a bad guardian. In fact, Erwin cared about Armin a lot more than Armin had ever expected of him. Whenever Armin woke up from nightmares, Erwin was there to placate him, and Erwin was there to make everything okay again. Erwin was Armin's tether to the world, and Armin was unbelievably thankful for him.

But sometimes it felt like the man was only playing Armin like a piece on a chessboard.

"Up," Erwin said, flicking on the light in Armin room. Armin blinked dazedly, curling against his blankets, and he mumbled softly into his pillow. His head was pounding viciously, and he felt sick to his stomach, as though something had been clawing at his abdomen for the majority of the night.

"Five…?" Armin grimaced, and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow as Erwin yanked his blankets off him.

"No," Erwin said. "Now. There's going to be a shooting."

Armin was barely lucid, and his head felt like it was about to split apart, but the word shooting did catch his attention. Armin turned his head, brushing his mess of blond hair from his one open eye. "Shooting?" He sat up, and caught the costume Erwin threw at him. He glanced out the window and saw, with great despair, that it was still dark out. "What_ time _is it?"

"Other vigilantes stay up all night patrolling," Erwin said, raising his chin at Armin. A sign that he was teasing. "I wonder if they complain as much as you."

"I've got school," Armin reminded, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand.

"It's only the first week," Erwin said stiffly. "I'm sure you'll be fine. Now get dressed."

Armin frowned. Against his skin fingers, the light white fabric of his uniform glittered faintly as Armin's handwriting appeared in a thick, clean script. He vaguely recognized the words as "Rip Van Winkle". The words were fuzzy, and he blamed that on his bleary vision. He was just sleepy, was all. He sighed as Erwin turned away toward to door, and Armin rose to his feet groggily.

"I bet Robin never had to deal with stuff like this," Armin called after him. Erwin paused in the doorway, and he glanced back at Armin with his thick eyebrows raised. He stood for a few moments, and then smiled.

"You should read more Batman," Erwin said. And then he left the room, leaving Armin to scowl and glare down at his uniform.

"I don't even like comic books much," Armin mumbled, tugging his shirt over his head. "When did my life _become_ one…"

He checked the time after donning his suit, and he shook his aching head in disbelief. It was four in the morning. Sure, his sleeping habits weren't exactly the best, but that was because he had intense studying habits that were infinitely more important. He hated it when his heroing habits got in the way of his life. He would need coffee. He would need a lot of coffee, and probably some chocolate and motrin and something fuzzy to get him through the day.

"It's four am," Armin informed Erwin as he exited his room, pulling on his knee high boots. "I don't like being a super hero anymore. I think I'm going to quit."

"Do you enjoy giving me anxiety?" Erwin asked, glancing at Armin curiously. The boy managed a weak smile, and took the white cloak he offered out. "You know I can't do this without you."

"Yeah…" Armin threw the cloak over his shoulders, fastening it to the left. "Yeah, I know. I was just joking."

"Of course," Erwin said. He fastened his own cloak, and nodded to Armin curtly. "You can sleep in the car if you're really that exhausted. Also you might want to grab some clothes, just in case."

"What?" Armin asked flatly. He stared at Erwin, who merely stared at him, and Armin groaned and whirled away. "Where are we going? Are we leaving the state?"

"Please pack lightly," Erwin said.

"We're not leaving the country, are we?" Armin kicked a bookbag from his closet and into the center of the floor. He tugged a sweatshirt from his drawer, and then a pair of jeans. "What am I packing for? Because I'm not packing any short sleeves, I'm drawing the line there."

"We're going north," Erwin said, leaning against the doorframe. "You should still pack some shorter sleeves, though. It's hot."

"Yep," Armin said glumly. "I know. Not taking any chances, though."

"It's going to be about ninety degrees," Erwin said. "You sure?"

"We're going to be in our suits all day, probably," Armin said, shoving a pair of flannel pants and a very baggy _Les Mis__é__rables_ tee shirt. "Look. A tee shirt. Happy?"

"Moderately." Erwin folded his arms across his chest, and he smiled. "Hurry up. There are lives on the line."

"Yeah, I know…" Armin glanced around, and spotted his gloves sitting beside his ipod. He grabbed both and tossed them into his bag, zipping it up and tossing a strap over his shoulder. "Okay, ready."

"Good." Erwin nodded, and they moved toward the door of their small house. Armin focused his energy, and when he looked down his hands had disappeared. They left without a word, and once he got into the car, he kicked off his boots and curled up on his seat, quickly falling back into slumber.

He dreamt of a man with warm eyes who gave him a little cup full of pills, and told him that they would make him better. He dreamt of white walls and white faces, and he dreamt of his white skin with blue veins webbing visibly beneath like rivers of dying nerves. He dreamt of a girl and two boys who looked the same, and who watched him with sympathy. He dreamt of Eren and Mikasa, pressing their hands to his and murmuring that it'd be okay. He dreamt of a woman with blonde hair and tired eyes, who plucked him up and rested him on her knee, bouncing him until he giggled hysterically. His laughter melted as she began to sing to him, her hiding her hands behind her back.

"_Meine H__ä__nde sind verschwunden, ich habe keine H__ä__nde mehr, ei, da sind die H__ä__nde wieder, tralalalalalala…_"

He woke up with a terrible headache.

"Coffee," Armin murmured, rubbing his eyes. Across his hands, words were dancing wildly, frantically grappling for Armin's attention. They were not making sentences, only fluttering fractured bits of a book from Armin's recent memory. _Intense spurt of coughing— almost inspired— his blue eyes stared at the floor— seeing nothing_. Ah, right. _The Book Thief_. His subconscious was being very strange today.

"It's nearly eleven," Erwin said. He didn't tear his eyes from the road. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Mm," Armin rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Yeah. I've got a headache, but it was worse this morning."

"I'll get you some aspirin," Erwin said.

"And coffee," Armin said. "Please."

Erwin got him what he requested, thankfully, but Armin didn't feel much better. It wasn't surprising. Armin's headaches were chronic, and weren't easily placated. He blamed it on his power, which used so much energy that his brain probably just couldn't deal with the stress. Armin was used to it by now, but it felt like they were getting worse recently. He woke up with migraines a lot.

"Feeling better?" Erwin asked.

"Yeah," Armin said, stretching his arms. He blinked rapidly as he glanced out the window. "Is that the empire state building?"

"Probably," Erwin said, his thumbs drumming idly to the beat of the Queen song that had come onto the radio. "Also, don't ask. We don't have the time for any plays."

"I feel like it's your goal in life to make me unhappy," Armin mumbled, folding his hands in his lap. "Hopelessly, hopelessly unhappy."

"You have school, I have work," Erwin sighed. "We can't stay longer than the night."

"You're a librarian," Armin said. "They can live without you for a day or two."

"No," Erwin said. "No plays."

Armin frowned, and leaned his cheek against his first. "Fine…" The afternoon was heavy, and sort of languid, sitting with heat and humidity and causing Armin to grimace. He didn't like days like this. It was hot and sticky, and it made it uncomfortable to wear long sleeves and gloves.

"How'd you know it was in New York?" Armin asked, glancing at Erwin.

"I recognized the mall," Erwin said.

Armin didn't want to ask about how he knew the mall, or if he'd lived in New York City before, or anything. Armin didn't want to pry. Erwin's business was his own, and he didn't talk about if very often. Armin understood that the man deserved his privacy, so he never asked too many questions, but he was still desperately curious.

"I'm going to warn you ahead of time," Erwin said as he parked the car. Armin pulled his boots back on. "You're going to meet someone you know here. A girl."

"A girl?" Armin could feel his heart jump excitedly. "Is it… is it Mikasa?"

"I wouldn't know," Erwin said, tugging his black hood over his face. "I never met the girl. But possibly."

Armin couldn't help but jump excitedly at the thought of seeing Mikasa again_. But what if it isn't Mikasa_, he wondered_. What other girls do I know?_ In truth, Armin didn't interact much with people. He talked to his classmates, sure, and he had friends, but he couldn't recall ever being attached to any girl aside from Mikasa. He felt the prickle of memories trying to surface, prodding at the layer of soot and snow that buried his unsavory past.

"Armin," Erwin said. They were making their way into the mall, invisible and unnoticed. "I've been curious about this. You've never wanted to look for your missing friends before. Why is that?"

Armin had been thinking about it a lot lately. What he would say to Eren and Mikasa if he ever saw them again. If they were angry that he'd never sought them out. But the truth was, Armin felt that they were both better off without him. Armin was kind of just dead weight. He'd hold them back, in the end.

"I know they're alive," Armin said. "They don't need me. I've never had a problem with getting left behind. It's just my fate, I think."

"Left behind?" Erwin sounded vaguely surprised. "Is that what you think?"

"Well," Armin said, "it's just the most logical thing to do, I think, because I know I can be a burden."

Erwin was silent as they moved forward, and Armin couldn't help but feel nervous. He'd never really talked about his insecurities to Erwin before. He'd never thought he had to. He always thought Erwin just knew Armin, and read him as easily as though Erwin was the one with telepathy. Armin had never questioned it. He'd always gone along with Erwin's uncanny intuition. But now he was beginning to feel sheepish, as though he should not have spoken at all, as if he should have just left it alone.

"You are _not_ a burden," Erwin said suddenly. His voice was unbearably sharp, and loud enough to turn heads. Armin froze, and he glanced back at Erwin. Armin could not see him, but he could sense his presence inexplicably, despite not being able to read his thoughts. There was something different about invisibility that was on a different mental level. "You can't afford to think like that. We don't have the time to be so trivial, Armin. Either you accept what you're worth, or you become worthless. Choose."

Armin's breath caught, and he stared ahead of him numbly. His head was hurting vaguely, and he wanted to snap something irritably at Erwin, like that he just didn't care if he was worth anything or not, because it never felt like he was, but Armin couldn't. He couldn't fight back, and he couldn't speak, and he wanted fling his head back and scream. He nearly lost all focus and composure, and he saw the ink of his suit flutter into visibility, glistening in midair and laughing at him.

They moved quietly, expertly, and made it to the food court little effort. Armin was always stunned at how precise Erwin always was. His timing was always impeccable, and he was never at fault with location. Erwin simply always got things right, as though his precognition was more of a divine guess, and Erwin was simply playing at omniscience.

Armin knew Erwin's power was far from omniscient. It was still a little scary, though.

If Armin could have three wishes, he had no idea what he'd use the last two for, but his first wish would be to read Erwin's mind. It would be so much easier if Armin could just… connect with him. Not just any connection, but the kind of connection that Armin had with Eren and Mikasa, the kind of connection that was unbreakable despite all weathering, but natural in its manifestation. A calm, painless connection. Erwin was someone Armin felt desperately attached to, and admittedly dependent upon, so it was hard to know that there was a chasm between them. With Eren and Mikasa, Armin had always felt content. Safe. Loved. With Erwin, it was a guessing game. Was Erwin using Armin for his powers, or did he truly care? Was that smile real? Was that head pat affectionate, or manipulative? Did Erwin know that Armin didn't trust him as much as he let on? Did Erwin sense Armin's insecurities, and ignore them?

And the fact that Erwin and Armin could not communicate during these situations was so inconvenient! A mental discussion was all Armin would need to know when to stop talking, and start listening. A nudge, or a command, _anything_. It could have saved a few lives along the line. It could have shut Cicero's mouth, and disarmed a gun. It could have saved Armin from feeling so terrible, too.

But Armin didn't think Erwin wanted Armin to stop talking. In fact, Armin was certain that if Armin and Erwin did manage to forge a mindlink, Erwin would not hold Armin back. He'd probably want Armin to speak more often. And that, in truth, was the last thing Armin wanted.

_The only future I want_, Mikasa Ackerman's voice cut sharply into the careful barriers of Armin's mind, _is a future with Eren in it_.

Armin stood breathlessly for a moment as a familiar taste washed over his tongue. Like peppermint tea, prickling his senses and sending a sweet, fresh alertness through his tired soul. Armin felt the familiarity like hearing an old song on the radio for the first time in a decade. There was static, a nostalgic whir of emotions blurring his senses, and then there was a click, a natural progression of rhythmic connections flickering between him and her, a quiet mind and a coarse one.

_Mikasa?_ He called her name tentatively. The connection was faint, but still there, and he felt that he could hold onto it and lose himself in it, sing its silvery tunes like it was a melody long forgotten, but suddenly resurging through a series of flippant memories. Armin drew closer to her, staring at her in disbelief. She'd changed. She looked bigger now, steadier and harder and fiercer. Her black hair was a stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck, layers of too-short hair framing her doll-like face. Armin saw she had numerous piercings in her ears, metal studs glinting against the summer sun that streamed in through the skylight.

_Mikasa?_ Armin repeated, keeping enough distance from her to not be caught by the plastic knife that she whipped toward him, her eyes darting wildly. She could sense him, but she could not sense that it was _him_. She must have become sensitive to his powers in their years apart. Perhaps their connection had been completely lost. Perhaps there was nothing left of it, and Armin was yanking at a severed cord.

"Mikasa?" A small woman with short strawberry blonde hair sat across from Mikasa, and spoke with the tenderness of a mother to a child. Not that Armin would know, but he'd collected what he could from the thoughts of others. He learned from Mikasa's thoughts that the woman's name was Petra. "What's wrong?"

"Did you hear that?" Mikasa asked, sounding anxious and alarmed, her thoughts thudding through Armin's brain. She was scared, and confused, and she didn't know what was going on. Armin had surprised her, and in the worst way possible. Her fear sent a vicious wave of acidity crashing against his tongue, and it burnt his throat and his eyes, and he had to rub them with the heels of his palms, massaging the hollows of his skull in hopes to placate his worsening migraine.

"Hear what?" Petra asked slowly.

"Nothing," Mikasa said, bowing her head. "It was just—"

Armin was surprised when the gunshot rang out. He had not heard the gunman, nor was he prepared for this. He would deal with it, though, because this was what he was here for. This was his job. He was a hero. He had the responsibility to deal with the bad guys.

Erwin caught Armin by the arm as the room turned to chaos. "Which one is the leader?" he asked, his voice just loud enough for Armin to hear over the cacophony of shrieking, the clatter of chairs and tables and feet clapping against tile.

Armin paused to focus his energy on the flickering networks arising around him, the twisting webs of thoughts that brushed against his cheeks and snarled at his throat. He felt them vibrating against his lips. But even the bits of frantic, screeching thoughts could not be discerned into identification. Armin realized with a start that it was purely because the gunmen, several of them, all in a menacing group, had no thoughts to feed into the pool of tangled words and pulsating emotions that Armin was forced to digest.

"I—" Armin felt a little dizzy, and he blinked rapidly. "I can't. I can't read them."

"What?" Erwin asked. Armin held onto his arm, and took a deep breath. _Focus_, he thought to himself firmly. _You need to focus!_ "All of them?"

"Yes," Armin said breathlessly. "What should we do? I don't know if I can do this without reading their minds."

Erwin was quiet as the gunmen forced the remaining people in the room to kneel down. Erwin had seen this. The hostages, and Mikasa, and the gunmen. But not the fact that Armin could not read them. Erwin had not seen that, and Armin was bitter about it. What an incredibly important detail.

"Try," Erwin whispered. And Armin closed his eyes, feeling the pressure of that word as it bent Armin completely backwards, and threatened to snap his spine.

"Okay," Armin said. He took a deep breath, and spotted Mikasa kneeling not far away. He nodded furiously, and raised his head high, though he knew Erwin could not see it. "Okay."

He marched toward his old friend, maneuvering through people as though they were merely obstacles on a children's playground. He listened as she thought about saying something very snappy at one of the gunmen, and Armin shook his head in disbelief. _Mikasa_, he thought sharply, _don't you dare!_ He thought that perhaps he should be more gentle, because after all, their connection had been weakened to the point where Armin was not sure that Mikasa could even recognize his presence. But nonetheless, he let his mind extend outwards, reaching Mikasa's precariously.

_Armin?_ Mikasa's voice was heavy and forceful, ricocheting in Armin's head and booming in the vacancy of Armin's mind. He could feel her shock and desperation as she craned her neck, her dark eyes darting wildly as they searched for him in the frightened faces around her. Her eyes flickered right over Armin, as expected, and he couldn't help but feel sad, even though there was no way she could have possibly seem him.

_Yes_, Armin said, his relief escaping from him in a word, drifting slowly before reaching Mikasa. _It's me. I'm right behind you_.

Mikasa whipped her head around, but of course she could not see him.. _No_, Mikasa thought. Armin pulled the glove off his right hand, and bent down beside Mikasa. _I don't_— Her thoughts halted with a jolt as Armin's hand pressed against hers. There was a strange burst of warmth at the point where their skin brushed, and Armin was surprised and exhilarated because it had been _forever_ since he had touched someone aside from Erwin. Even longer since he'd touched someone, and that touch was pleasant. In fact, Mikasa's touch was more than just pleasant— it was a relief in itself, like crawling into bed after pulling three consecutive all-nighters, like taking a sip of water after a marathon, like stepping into an air-conditioned room after spending an afternoon in the desert. Armin wanted to hug her, and maybe begin to cry.

_You can't see me_, Armin said to her, _because I don't want you to. I figured out that I can trick peoples' brains into thinking I'm not really there, and now I'm invisible, but tangible. See? I mean, of course not, but you know what I mean._

"Oh…" Mikasa breathed. She tightened her hand around Armin's, and there was clarity inside of Armin's head again. His migraine was like a distant ache, and he felt a little more lucid, and a little more confident just by standing in her presence.

_I'm so, so glad to see you_, Armin said. He smiled in awe, because he was. He was so happy, and he didn't know how to express it. He didn't know what to do, and he was angry that Mikasa had to be in danger when they were finally reunited. _I wish it was under different circumstances, though_.

"Ye—" Mikasa stopped, and Armin nearly laughed. She was clearly not used to mindlinks anymore. In truth, Armin wasn't either. It had been awhile since he'd intentionally connected with anyone's mind, and when he did it intentionally, he usually did not touch them. _Yeah. I've been looking for you_.

_I know_, Armin said. He had seen it in her mind, and he felt a little guilty for it. But he laughed it off mentally, and he could taste her happiness as she smiled and leaned into his touch, a sweet and brilliant sensation that tickled his tongue. _Your thoughts aren't exactly hidden. I didn't even need to touch you to figure that one out_.

_Oh_, Mikasa thought, _is that why you're holding my hand? To read my mind better?_

_Oh, no_, Armin said. _I don't need physical contact to initiate a mindlink anymore. I just missed you, that's all_.

Mikasa squeezed his fingers as he locked them between hers. _Me too_. Armin had to take a moment to absorb the positivity of having Mikasa in his head again. For so long, connections through touch had been terrible to experience. Armin could not stand the feeling of skin against his own unless it was Erwin, and even then the man was cautious with Armin's comfort. Mikasa was special in that her mind was molded perfectly to fit his. There was no pain or fear in their connection. Just inexplicable relief.

_It's weird, though_, Armin said, after taking all the time he could spare basking in the comfort of just being able to touch someone. _I can't read any of _their_ minds_.

"What?" Mikasa whispered, glancing behind her. She looked through Armin just as expected. _Who?_

_Everyone who has a gun_, Armin replied quietly. He let go of her hand, saddened by the chilly feeling that followed their skin separating. He pulled his glove back on. _It's just… this happens with certain people, where I can't read their minds, but it's never happened with a group of people before. It's incredible. Except now I can't talk them down._

_What do these people even want?_ Mikasa asked bitterly.

_I wish I could tell you_, Arimin said. He knew that their connection was probably slightly weaker, and less comforting now, but he couldn't keep it up. He couldn't cling to Mikasa like he was a child. He had to be Cicero now. He had to be strong enough to hold himself up. Mikasa's sudden, fleeting vision of Armin getting shot entered his mind, and he almost laughed. The boy in her imagination was small and almost sickly pale, with a shaved head and tears in his eyes. It only reinforced his resolve.

_Mikasa, please don't worry about me_, Armin thought desperately. _I don't need you to protect me. This isn't the first time I've had to talk down someone without using my powers_.

_You're not trying_, Mikasa responded firmly. _I'll just beat them all up_.

_Bad idea_, Armin sighed. _How many gunmen are there, anyway? You can't take them all on your own without someone getting hurt. And don't forget, you're still human despite all your strength. _

_Do you have a plan, Armin?_ Mikasa asked. He could sense her distress. _Do you know that you'll be able to talk these people out of this? Because I think they'll just shoot you on the spot_.

_I have other tricks besides telepathy, you know_, Armin said, glancing around him. He tried to count the gunmen, but he couldn't for some reason. He couldn't focus on keeping himself and Erwin invisible, maintain a mindlink, and count at the same time, he supposed. _And anyways, I always have a contingency plan_.

Mikasa nodded. _Okay_, she said. _I trust you, Armin_. He smiled at her, and nearly hugged her then. But he didn't. He was distracted by another familiar presence, this one tasting heavy and acrid, like dark chocolate melting on Armin's tongue. There was an intrepid burst of emotions stemming from the presence, and Armin could taste all of them. They soothed his headache while simultaneously worsening it.

There was struggling somewhere near the stairwell. Armin moved tentatively closer as gunshots rang out, and a boy burst into the room without a care in the world. Armin's heart was thudding wildly in awe. _Armin, what's going on?_ Mikasa asked, as a voice bellowed, "Hey! Recognize me, huh?"

_I don't know_, Armin said. _I—_

The sight of Eren's face sent their connection to shambles. Armin grappled at it senselessly, feeling it slip through the cracks of his mind and stream around him like tattered ribbons. It felt horrible to have Mikasa disappear, but Armin could not focus any longer. His focus was so jostled by the sight of Eren Jaeger, in fact, that Armin felt his powers give a vicious signal that they were about to take over. Because Armin's mind and his powers could not coexist if one could not handle the other. Armin shuddered, and he felt himself become briefly visible. Erwin was standing across the room, watching with a hard expression.

Armin met Eren's eye, and the boy stopped dead in his tracks. There was an giant arm attached to his own, a goliath of a mass of flesh that stretched into the air, somehow lifted up by Eren's skinny shoulder. There was no way that was physically possible, Armin realized, but it happened. Eren was holding up an arm that was larger than his entire body and Armin's combined! And yet, as Armin drifted closer to Eren, he saw that the arm was falling apart. Muscle was sloughing off bone. Skin was bursting apart, shredding into steaming pink filaments that shriveled up and dispersed upon touching the ground. The arm was melting away, and falling to bloody chunks as veins and nerves were exposed. Armin peered at them, and noticed that they were extending from the pores of Eren's skin. They snapped as though severed by a god's careful swipe, and even they fell away into steaming inexistence.

_It's Eren_, Armin said, recollecting the fragile, broken connection of his mind and Mikasa's. Eren was looking around, whirling in place as his mouth dropped open. Armin could see green paint dribbling down his cheeks, shading his eyes from view and properly disguising his face from anyone who didn't know it. Armin wondered for a moment why he did that, but then his attention turned back to the steaming remnants of the colossal arm that had been attached via artificial nervous system to Eren's dark skin. _Rogue_, Armin realized, keeping the thought to himself. _Eren is Rogue. That's amazing_.

_Armin_, Mikasa said, her voice faint inside his head. It grew very harsh suddenly, frantic and unsteady. _Armin, he's looking for you. Link us. Link all of us. The three of us can do this_.

_I'm going to try_, Armin thought. _Let me get his hand_— As Armin reached, however, five shots boomed against the ether around Armin, colliding with a skinny body and causing a fountain of blood to bloom outwards in a hot, thick cascade, and it splattered heavily across Armin's cheeks, dribbling down his nose and across his lips, gliding against his teeth and washing across his tongue in a thick, warm, acrid wave. All connections were broken. He felt them shatter— his connection with Mikasa _and_ his connection with Eren— and burrow into his eyes in white-hot shards, blinding him with a blazing, stinging pain, and Armin felt the void collapse on top of him, laughing at him with such a sadistic glee that it crushed him.

_Fuck_, Eren thought, his inner voice faint. _I fucked up, I fucked up, oh my god, I fucked up_.

There was no line between Armin's power and his restraint. There was only Armin. There was only a boy who stood with blood sinking into his skin, forcing him to become a red silhouette in the face of the glinting summer sun. His heart had broken apart, and his mind was in shambles. The only thing inside Armin unbroken was some kind of fierce, angry power that had built up over time, hiding itself in nooks and waiting for the moment to strike. Armin fluttered into existence like a light flickering on, and he felt himself fading between void and visibility, viciously tugged from one realm of perception to another, and it was forcing him to see the world in shades of reds, of burgundies and vermilions and cherries and blessed, bloody crimsons.

_Eren_, Armin called into the hollow air. Armin felt his mind. He felt it failing. He felt it fading and falling away into oblivion. Armin was certain Eren couldn't even hear him, which was distressing because all Armin wanted was for Eren to hear his voice and to be okay.

Eren dropped to his knees, and Armin buckled. He couldn't take it. He was crippling under his own despair, his own power flooding through him and taking control, sending him spiraling into a pit of fury and desolation. Tears were prickling inside Armin's eyes as a scream ripped from his throat, bursting into the ether and ripping it to shreds. There was no ether. There was no void. Armin would destroy it all. He'd scream until it was all wasted, and he'd scream until the world shattered, and he'd scream and scream until his head stopped hurting, and he'd scream until his heart stopped, because he couldn't fathom a world without Eren in it, no matter how far away Eren had been for years and years and years.

"Armin!"

He was still screaming when Erwin clamped a hand over his mouth from behind, one strong arm hooking around his waist to prevent struggling. It didn't work. Armin thrashed against the man, still howling and screeching away, his screams thundering inside his head and tearing him apart bit by bit. He felt the warmth of Erwin's body, and normally it'd be a comfort of some kind just to have him close, but Armin had never wanted Erwin to leave him alone more than in that moment. Tears were streaming down Armin's face, hot and splashing against his skin, melting the still wet blood smeared across Armin's flushed cheeks.

"Armin," Erwin said, dodging Armin's arms and successfully muffling Armin's screams with his palm. Armin's head whipped back, slamming against Erwin's chest, and Armin felt the need to claw at Erwin's face until he bled. He fought against the man's arms until he couldn't fight anymore, and his screams turned into broken, breathy sobs, and he collapsed onto his knees, staring at Eren's corpse with a mixture of rage and misery. Erwin held him closer, squeezing his tiny frame, and Armin vaguely heard his voice hushing him softly as he smoothed back his hair, pushing back his hood, and let him sob against his chest. "Just breathe… breathe…"

After a few minutes, Armin was left completely numb. He'd quieted down, but he was still clinging to Erwin with a sickening hopelessness, fistfuls of the man's cloak crumpling beneath Armin's fingers as he sat like a small child curled in his father's arms. Erwin's chin was resting against the top of Armin's hair, despite the blood that stained it.

"We need to go," Erwin said quietly. "I'm going to pick you up."

Armin said nothing. He was scooped up like he weighed nothing, which was likely true enough, and Armin's eyes traveled back to Eren's corpse. Armin saw, sickened, that there was steam rising from the boy's five bullet wounds. _No_, Armin thought. _Don't do that, don't evaporate, don't go away, please_. More tears filled Armin's eyes. It wasn't fair. It wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't—

The ceiling shattered.

For a moment, Armin looked up. All he could see was a pair of wings, glistening against the rays of sunlight in sharp, angular ribbons. The wings were massive, both spanning the entirety of Armin's body, and they were colorful and glossy, like glass suspended in midair and connected by some ethereal filament. They were attached to a falling, spinning body, which was tucked and rolling through the air with the skill of a master acrobat.

Armin was stunned as Erwin's body curled around him protectively, his massive shoulders working as a shield as the man dropped to his knees and slid across the floor to get to cover as a hurricane of glass came spiraling down from above. Armin sat, shaking against Erwin's chest, tears still flooding freely down his flushed, bloody face, and Erwin looked down at him with a frown. The glass skittered across the floor, narrowly missing the unconscious hostages— _why are they sleeping, what happened to Mikasa, what's going on, what happened, what have I_— and crunching under the weight of a pair of black boots.

Armin couldn't see who had fallen from the ceiling, but he didn't really care. He stared ahead of him as Erwin attempted to wipe up Armin's tears with the hem of his black cloak. It was merely dampened with blood, and it made Armin's skin feel sticky and cold. Erwin smoothed his hair back again, but Armin's bangs merely fell right back into place against his forehead. Armin wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to sleep, and pretend this was all a terrible nightmare. That Eren was still alive somewhere, that Armin could go looking for him with a newfound desperation.

The man who had fallen from the ceiling was now standing amongst the unconscious hostages. Armin could hear his thoughts, but they were nothing but a faint buzzing in a mass of vivid dreams swirling around inside Armin's head. Armin didn't have the focus to pick apart dreams from lucid thoughts, and lucid thoughts from specific identities. Armin saw the man, small and shirtless— no wings to speak of— and firmly muscled, bend down somewhere in the crowd of bodies. Armin stared, his heart thundering, and his head feeling heavy and ablaze, as though a fire was raging through all his thoughts and feelings and turning his insides to ash.

Armin saw the man gingerly prop up a body against his knee.

_Mikasa_, Armin thought. He struggled to his feet, pushing Erwin away and stumbling forward senselessly. _No, I can't lose her too. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no_—

Armin wanted to speak, to tear the man to shreds using words and thoughts, but he couldn't. Armin's tongue sat in his mouth, heavy and inflexible, and his jaw was fastened closed as he quietly maneuvered through unconscious bodies, their dreams echoing loftily inside Armin's pounding head. Armin didn't know what he was going to do. Punching the man would do nothing— Armin had never punched anyone before, and he knew he would only hurt himself in the end— and Armin could not bring himself to speak.

Armin stopped beside the man. He stopped, and he stared at the man with glistening eyes until he finally looked up, and observed a tiny, bloody boy watching him with an eerie emptiness as he put a finger between his lips and tugged a white glove from his hand with his teeth. The glove was going wild with words, terrible, sketchy words that were scribbled frantically as though by an injured man. Armin caught nothing but a glimpse of the writing, his thoughts in shambles and his emotions conflicting with his senses, but he did manage to read a wobbly sentence. _But indeed these Things are nothing; if God should withdraw his Hand, they would avail no more to keep you from falling, than the thin Air to hold up a Person that is suspended in it_.

"What the fuck do you want, kid?" asked the man, glancing up at Armin with a bored, irritated expression. Mikasa's head was resting in his lap.

Armin exhaled sharply though his nose, Eren's blood trickled down his cheeks, and he reached down and set his bare fingers between the man's shoulder blades, resting the tips of them against a black, white, and blue tattoo that enveloped his entire back in a massive, fractured set of overlapping wings. At Armin's touch, the man's back arched in shock, and the taste of him lapped over Armin's tongue like brine and sea foam, a shuddering, bleeding taste, acrid and chilly and too strong, and it burned Armin's senses like bleach washing down his throat.

There was panic. Frightened, vicious, wild panic, and Armin felt it like a maelstrom beating against his body, sending him drifting in the air and crashing to the ground without pity or care. Armin felt the man's thoughts flood into his head, a flurry of disjointed, confused, breathless thoughts that sloshed around and hissed like a cigarette tossed into a puddle. Smoke billowed from Armin's mouth, the taste of it blooming like a wave of heat, and Armin knew it wasn't real but he could still taste its pungency as though he'd taken a joint to his lips and sucked down a vicious array of carcinogens.

Armin saw the man, whose name was Levi, he now knew, through the tangle of their minds like red and white ribbons unraveling into a small mountain of strings that could not be discerned or separated, and Armin saw his memory in the most terrible light. Armin saw the hazy image of a dingy hotel room, curtains drawn and darkness crawling like maggots beneath Armin's skin, and he could feel his heart beating very hard, and he could hear someone breathing against him, and it scared him— _Levi_— and it made him sick. The image changed rapidly, melting away swiftly, but Armin still felt the fear and rage and disgust even after the memories flickered, and his throat began to burn from the aftertaste of vomit, a woman appearing before him and wiping his lips and murmuring about how useless he was, and Armin could hear the thundering, bitter thoughts of a child, _You're gross and miserable, and I hate you so much_.

Armin watched the image change again, a memory burning into another, this one hazier, of a syringe in hand and a tourniquet cutting against his flesh, and in his head a voice whispered, _unclean, you're unclean, you filth, you monster, you_— Armin felt the needle prod against his arm, and the memory changed again just as Armin realized he could not take any more of this hell that was Levi's mind, and he dug his fingernails into the faint scars that traced Levi's spine, too light to be seen over the tattoo, and Armin felt his mind quake with rage.

_Let go of her_, Armin's voice said, echoing as it ripped apart the memories that lashed out inside Levi's mind. _Let her go right now, or I'll— I'll—!_

Armin could do nothing. Levi broke out of the daze that Armin's mind had set him under, and the man leapt to his feet and curled his hand into a fist, delivering a blow to the side of Armin's head that threw off his equilibrium and would have sent him flying if Levi had not caught him by his cloak and slammed his knee into Armin's stomach. Armin didn't even feel it.

Armin blinked as another blow came, Levi's knuckles grazing Armin's cheek— _just sign so you can get back on your feet, just fucking do it, it can't hurt_— and then another— _this was stupid, I'm stupid, I can't take care of myself let a lone a child, they should just take her, we'd both be better off, we'd both be safe from each other, it'd be better if she was just taken away_— and he listened to Levi's thoughts though he could not understand them, and Armin realized he was crying and shaking, and he felt a little laugh escape his lips, shocked and pained.

"_Stop_."

Erwin had caught Levi's arm as the man pulled it back to hit Armin again. Armin stared at him blankly, tears flooding his bloody cheeks, and Armin tasted blood in his mouth, warm, fresh blood that could only be his own, and he was beginning to feel the aching of the beating he had just received, and Armin knew he deserved it.

Levi dropped Armin, and Armin hadn't even realized he'd been lifted off the ground until he crumpled beside Mikasa, coughing and gasping, his fingers twitching toward his chest. Armin gratefully accepted the inhaler Erwin thrust at his lips, and after a quick dose Armin felt a little better, and his mind felt a little clearer, and he shuddered and blinked and stared at his bare hand in horror.

"W-wha…" Armin breathed, slumping against Erwin's arm. "What did I…?"

"I'm not sure," Erwin said. "Do you know what just happened?"

"No," Armin whispered, touching his nose gingerly. It didn't feel broken. His head was pounding like hell had been unleashed inside it. And he was almost positive that it _had_ been. "I… I have no idea, I…" Armin glanced around him wildly, at the unconscious bodies and the blood and the shattered glass and Armin swallowed hard. "Oh… oh my god, did… did _I_ do this?"

"Yes," Erwin said, plucking Armin's glove from the floor and carefully sliding it back over his palm. The fabric was a mild comfort against his skin, which felt prickly and unclean, filthy, disgusting— but he didn't know _why_. "You sent out a mental shockwave when Eren was shot. Do you remember that?"

"No," Armin choked, shaking his head furiously. Thoughts rattled there, and they felt like nails carving up the hollows of his mind. "No, I… I remembered I screamed, but I don't… I didn't mean to—"

"I know," Erwin said gently. He glanced up, and so did Armin. Levi was standing over them, looking furious and implacable, and Armin saw that there were more tattoos and more scars, and he was very confused. He needed to go to sleep. For a really long time. He just needed to not be here now, because he couldn't think properly. "You didn't mean to hurt anyone, right, Armin?"

Armin stared up at Levi, and he took a deep breath and continued to shake his head. "_No_," Armin gasped. "I don't know why I…" Armin rubbed his forehead, and took another deep breath. "I'm sorry. I need to think…"

"You do that," Levi said icily. His eyes flickered to Erwin's face. "What the fuck, Erwin?"

"Nice to see you as well," Erwin said placidly, rising to his feet. "I'm sorry for what Armin did to you. I can assure you, it was worse for him."

"I sincerely doubt that," Levi said. Though he glanced at Armin, who was hugging his knees to his chest and scooting closer to Mikasa. He wondered if he could wake her up. "What the hell is he?"

"A telepath," Erwin said. He frowned for a moment, and unfastened his cloak, offering it out to Levi. The small man stared at it for a moment as though it was something that would corrode his skin if he touched it. He then took it, looking at it glumly, and he threw it over his bare shoulders. "He followed me from the facility, so I took him in. I see you did the same."

Levi blinked down at Mikasa as he carefully fastened the cloak. "Yeah…" Levi shrugged. "We have the same power, so I wanted to make sure she didn't end up like me."

"Understandable," Erwin said, nodding. Armin stared at Mikasa for a moment, and he looked up at Levi sharply.

"You took care of Mikasa?" Armin squeaked.

Levi looked at him sharply, and Armin knew that the man hated him. "Yes," Levi said dully. "Aren't you supposed to be a mind reader?"

"I… yeah, yeah, I am, I just… I wasn't really focusing when I touched you, so I—"

"I really don't care," Levi said, his attention returning to Erwin. "What happened to the shooters, anyway?"

Armin looked up suddenly. He looked around. Erwin did as well, and then they shared a look. "I have no idea," Erwin said. He blinked around them, and shrugged. "It's not really important right now. We need to get out of here before the police realize the gunmen are gone and decide to storm."

"What were you two even doing?" Levi asked. He blinked down at the cloak around his shoulders, and frowned. "Are you two fucking superheroes?"

"Aren't you?" Erwin cocked his head. "Freiheit?"

"I maim criminals on a regular basis," Levi said, averting his gaze. "So I guess it's more like reckless vigilantism."

"It's all the same," Erwin said. "I don't think the media knows the difference. If you wear a disguise and fight crime, you're a superhero. There's no going back at this point."

Freiheit. Armin knew that name. _Isn't there a hero in Chicago called Freiheit…? _Armin was stunned. That meant that Mikasa too was… _and _Eren!

Armin's heart nearly stopped at the thought of Eren. He buried his face in his hands, and took a deep breath. He needed to calm down. He needed to _think_!

_Rogue_, Armin thought. He had to try and recall the videos on the news that he'd never paid attention to. _Rogue's power set is… a mild form of shapeshifting, isn't it? And… when he steams it means he's_—

Armin jumped to his feet. Levi took a step back, and Armin felt something stir inside the man from their brief connection that had not been severed. Fear. _He's afraid of_ me, Armin thought. It was almost too much to handle. Armin wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it all was, but he couldn't.

It was as though everything had fallen into place. Armin's mind was clearing up. He wiped the blood streaming thickly from his nose, and he took a deep breath. _Mikasa_, Armin called into the void. He felt it reassembling as his mind snatched up all of the power that had escaped it. He saw his friend stir, and Armin focused solely on her, severing the connection he had made with Levi and latching onto the eternal one that existed from his mind to hers. _Mikasa, wake up!_

She jolted awake, her body curling into a defensive stance. "Mikasa," Armin said. His voice was thick from the blood pooling in his mouth and flooding from his nose. She looked at him, and her eyes widened, darting across his face wildly, and she moved very suddenly upright, and her hands grasped his face, turning it from side to side.

"Who did this?" she asked, her thumb running over the bruise Levi's fist had left on Armin's cheek. Now that Armin thought about it, Levi said he had the same powers as Mikasa. Meaning, he had super strength. Meaning, Armin was very lucky to still have his head on his shoulders.

Armin took her hands, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said quickly, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry I knocked you out. I lost control of my powers for a little bit."

"I've done worse to you," Mikasa reminded him, rubbing her head. Armin couldn't help but smile grimly at the memory. "Where's Eren…?" Her eyes widened for a moment, and then Armin watched them dull. "Oh."

"No," Armin said, shaking his head furiously. He grabbed Mikasa's hand and pulled her forward as the two adults eyed them both suspiciously. As he led her to Eren's body, still lying crumpled where he'd been left, Armin heard the distant breath of someone running. He watched as a person came rushing up the stairwell, skidding to a stop before them. They had messy brown hair yanked up in a ponytail, and glasses that were set askew on their long nose. They looked around, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Wow," they laughed, running their fingers through their hair. "Gosh, that was a trip and back. So, where's my son?"

Armin stared at them, his mouth dropping open. Before he could read their mind to find answers, Mikasa lifted her arm and pointed at Eren. Armin glanced at her confusedly, and then he looked back at the person near the stairwell. They were looking Eren with a frown. Armin tuned quickly into the track of her thoughts. _Well_, they were thinking, _that sucks. Eren liked that shirt, and now he's gonna whine at me for a week because he can't wash blood out of anything at all… is that paint?_

They wandered over to Eren's body, and then bent down, prodding Eren's cheek gently with the tip of her finger. Mikasa lurched forward, her eyes flashing, but Armin caught her by the arm and dragged her back. _Rogue_, Armin recalled. _And Polymath. That makes sense. Eren was adopted_. Armin wondered vaguely why Erwin had never adopted him.

_Do you know who that is?_ Armin asked, plucking at his mindlink with Mikasa.

Mikasa's voice was clipped in reply. _Hange Zo__ë__. They adopted Eren about a year ago_.

"Excuse me," Armin said, stepping forward. "Hange?"

They looked up at him, and smiled genially. "Hey there," they said, glancing between him and Mikasa. "Uh, I can explain."

"You don't have to," Armin said, pulling Mikasa closer to Eren's body. She didn't stop him, but he could feel her squirming to put some distance between her and the "corpse" of her best friend. "I know he's Rogue. How… how does his healing power work, exactly?"

Mikasa looked at Armin sharply. "Healing," she said, her voice heightening in pitch.

Armin looked up at her, and he smiled. "Rogue's got regenerative abilities," Armin said, rubbing the blood crusted on his face. At the institution, Eren's powers had never really manifested. They couldn't have known. "Though I guess his blood doesn't evaporate when he's in his normal body."

"Ha ha," Hange smirked up at him and sat back on the tile floor. "You're pretty smart. And I think I recognize that outfit, too. Cicero, right?"

Armin flushed, and continued to rub at his cheek. "Uh, yeah…" Armin glanced at Mikasa. "And… Nio…" Mikasa wasn't listening. She'd already dropped to her knees beside Eren. Armin watched her tuck her hair behind her ear and rest her cheek against his bloody chest. Armin couldn't help but want to do the same.

"Whoa." Hange's eyes flew wide. "Whoa! Wait, okay, Nio, Cicero…" They craned their neck to look at Levi and Erwin, who Armin knew were talking behind him. "Ha! Augur and Freiheit too! How'd we all end up here?"

"Well, we were—" Armin paused as a soft sob escaped Mikasa's lips. Armin had never seen Mikasa cry before. It was alarming, and disheartening, and Armin blinked suddenly as tears filled his eyes, and he looked away from Hange, biting his lip which tasted like blood, of course, because his entire face was a bloody mess, and his entire body was aching, and he took a deep, rattling breath to try and steady himself. He was so close to Eren that Armin could feel their connection, still alive despite all odds, and he couldn't help but reach out and latch onto it. _Eren_, Armin called. _Please… please wake up now… please_…

Armin dropped to his knees as Eren's body buckled in shock, his eyes fluttering open. Mikasa did not let go of him, and Armin saw her arms tighten around him instead, her face buried in his chest. He blinked rapidly, green paint drying on his cheeks, and his mouth opened and then it closed. He patted her head awkwardly, his brow furrowing.

"Mikasa…?" He sat up, and then he winced. "Oh, shit. Shit!"

"What?" Armin squeaked, putting a hand on Eren's back to support him. "What's wrong? Are you not completely healed? Do we need to get a doctor, or—"

"No, I completely healed." Eren grimaced. "I… oh, hey, Armin." Eren's eyes brightened. "What the fuck happened to you? Do I have to beat someone up?"

"No," Armin sighed. "The blood is mostly yours. What's wrong, Eren?"

"Oh." Eren laughed weakly, and shrugged one shoulder. Mikasa was still hugging him. "Uh, well, this has happened before, but like… I kinda healed around the bullets, so…"

"Oh." Armin's eyes widened. "Oh my god. Okay."

"Yeah…"

"Don't worry," Hange chirped. "I've got a very steady hand. All we need to do is get out of here and back to the apartment."

"I can get us out," Armin said. He felt Eren's eyes on him, and Armin wanted to hug the boy so badly, to start crying and sobbing too, but he couldn't. No one else could get them out of the mall undetected.

"You're Armin, huh?" Hange asked, tilting their head. Armin stared at her in surprise. "Eren's talked about you. And Mikasa. It's really nice to meet you!"

"Y-yeah," Armin said, blinking confusedly. "Uh, same." He looked back at Erwin and Levi, who had finally decided to wander closer to them. "I'm going to make us all invisible, but I'll be the only one who can sense everyone, so it might be best if we held onto each other."

"You're not getting in my head again, brat," Levi said. He was watching Mikasa hug Eren, though, and there didn't seem to be much bite to his tone.

"I don't need to touch you," Armin said, rising to his feet. "I don't even need to touch your mind, really. Just hold onto Erwin, if I make you that uncomfortable."

Levi seemed to bristle at that, and his eyes snapped to Armin's face dangerously. "You're a little punk," Levi told him.

Armin couldn't find a real response to that, so he just nodded, and spun around to face Eren again. "Can you stand?" he asked Eren desperately. Armin knew he might pass out at any moment, and so he wanted to get them all out of there as quick as possible. Making so many people invisible at once would definitely weaken Armin, but… it didn't really matter at this point. He had no choice.

"Um…" Eren shook his head, and he frowned. "I… shit. Hange, I need to take my insulin."

"Wait," Hange said, their eyes widening. "Seriously? You didn't take it before this… okay, I'm not really surprised, but wow. Someone needs to give you an ass whooping."

"Tell that to the five fucking bullets in my chest, Hange," Eren retorted snidely.

"I will!" Hange beamed, their teeth gleaming as they laughed. "When I surgically remove them from your sternum."

"You're a scary bitch, you know that?" Eren frowned, and blinked as Mikasa let go of him. "Um, hey. Are you okay… or…?"

"I'm… fine," Mikasa lied. Armin could sense she was lying. By the look on Eren's face, he could too. "W-we need to get you out of here." Armin watched as she picked Eren up easily, much to his dismay, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"What the fuck?" Eren's eyes flashed to Armin's face. "Don't laugh at me! I have a _disability_!"

"I-I'm sorry," Armin gasped, stifling the laughter with his hands. He felt blood seep through his gloves, and pulled his hands back to see that his palms were completely stained red. Armin whirled to face Erwin, and he held out his bloody hands. "Will this wash out?"

"Depends," Levi said. Armin was surprised the man was speaking to him, after what Armin had done. "If it's a delicate fabric, put dish soap on the stain before you wash it."

"Oh," Armin said, his eyes widening. He glanced at Erwin, who gave a small nod. "Thank you."

"I still think you're a little scumbag," Levi said. And then he shrugged. "But Erwin and I talked about it, and I can't really blame you for wanting to protect Mikasa. Also, it was pretty ballsy of you, since doing that apparently causes asthma attacks." Levi shrugged. "But don't touch me ever again."

"I really, really don't want to, so don't worry," Armin said quietly. He moved to brush his hair back from his neck, but he remembered that it was in a ponytail, as it always was when he was Cicero. "Um, can everyone hold onto each other?"

Hange all but bounced over to Erwin and Levi, locking their arms between theirs. Armin smiled a little, because Erwin looked genuinely amused, while Levi looked ready to decapitate someone. "Hey, there, fellas," Hange said. "I've got this weird feeling we're gonna be seeing a lot of each other."

"Hange!" Eren called from Mikasa's arms. "Don't be creepy!"

"Says you, you zombified little—!"

"Fuck," Levi said suddenly, breaking away from Hange and spinning away from her. Hange paused, and frowned, glancing up at Erwin as Levi went running back to the hostages.

"Was it something I said?" Hange asked.

"No," Erwin assured her with a gentle smile. "He's terrible with people. Don't take anything he says personally."

"You know," Armin said, "you never told me about anyone else from the institution."

"I never felt it pertinent," Erwin replied. "I just assumed it was an unspoken rule between us to not talk about it."

"Well," Armin said with a frown, "it's not like I can remember much of it anyway."

"True enough."

Levi returned to Hange's side with a body in his arms. Armin recognized her as Petra, and he was surprised, because he had forgotten all about her. As had Mikasa, it seemed. "Kay," Levi said. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Right," Erwin agreed, his eyes meeting Armin's. "After you make us invisible, wake everyone up."

Armin took a step back in surprise. He glanced away, his eyes following the path of bodies across the floor, and he couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief. "I… I don't know if I have that kind of power…" _I don't know if I have the energy_, Armin wanted to say, feeling desperate and scared. He had no idea how to reach so many minds at once. "Can't we just let the police deal with them?"

"Armin," Erwin said, his voice a sharp warning. Armin bowed his head in shame. _Hey_, Eren whispered into Armin's head. Armin nearly jumped. _Want me to beat him up?_

_You really, really want to beat someone up_, Armin thought, laughing aloud, and quickly catching himself. Erwin studied him with vague suspicion. _I have to sever our connection okay? I can't focus on this many things at once_. Armin watched as Mikasa and Eren nodded at him.

Armin took a deep breath. He took Erwin by the arm, and then reached out for Mikasa. She moved closer to him, and he took her by her bare arm, sending a quick mental apology for getting blood on her. She didn't seem to care much though, and Armin noticed Eren had sort of just curled into her arms. He had probably passed out.

After cutting away all that he could of his links to Mikasa and Eren (he'd never be able to fully be rid of them, unless one of them died permanently), Armin closed his eyes, and focused his energy on shielding all of them at once. It was arduous, and it took a few tries, but after about a minute, he looked around and saw nothing. He could sense them all there, though, and that was comfort enough.

"How does this even work?" Levi asked.

"What?" Armin asked, his focus breaking away from trying to figure out the links of all the minds in the room.

"The invisibility," Levi said. "Are you just cloaking us? Because you clearly don't need to be in our heads to make us invisible."

"Yeah…" Armin sighed, and he closed his eyes. "Something like that."

Armin had no way to grab onto all the minds in the room at once, but he'd done it before, so he figured he could do it again. Armin usually had plans for these sorts of things, but he couldn't manage to think beyond what was in front of him at this point. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, and if he didn't act fast they could all be in a huge amount of trouble.

So he grappled with the links of a hundred unknown minds, and he latched onto them, digging his fingers into them and tearing them all open. He could feel a hundred dreams pour into his head as he opened up his own mind and shouted, _**WAKE UP!**_

The jolt was palpable. It blew across the air and scattered, causing a massive, universal gasping of slight pain, as though they had been pinched, and then they merely blinked in confusion. Armin severed the connections as swiftly as he possibly could, shaking as he squeezed Erwin's bicep and Mikasa's wrist.

"Let's go," he said numbly.

They went. Armin managed to get them past the barricades and the crowds before he collapsed, falling to his hands and knees and letting his exhaustion take over him, save him from the vicious pounding inside his head, and save him from the aching and the crawling. Armin just wanted a little relief.

He wasn't sure he'd ever get any, but it was nice to dream.


	4. higher

_**excelsior**_

**Chicago, Illinois **

_a.d. vii Idus Septembres, 2766 A.U.C._

The two semi automatic handguns sat almost innocently at the foot of his bed, glinting against the fading summer sunlight. Truthfully, Jean only thought they looked innocent because he'd never actually used them. But, hey, here was his chance. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips as he hummed along to the song that had appeared on his ipod. Smoke billowed from his lips, and he tugged at the hooks around his waist idly.

"You think this'll hold?" Jean asked, frowning down at his belt. It was equipped with a taser, superglue, a jackknife set, a panic button (he had yet to tell Marco he'd stolen a life alert button from his grandmother, but he figured sometime in the near future Marco would thank him), an extra pair of gloves, a penlight, a switchblade, a small, sharp, sheathed knife, some strong cable, a lighter, and a box of cigarettes.

"It should," Marco said from the floor, fiddling idly with an old handheld radio. Jean wasn't exactly the world's most tech-savvy, so he left that gadgety stuff to Marco. Somehow he had rigged it to pick up police transmissions. Marco, Jean decided, would be utterly invaluable in a zombie apocalypse. "You don't weigh too much. I think it's just a matter of, can you maneuver yourself so you don't end up splat against the side of a building." Marco smiled brightly up at Jean, though his words made Jean scowl, and feel a little uncertain about this entire scheme. Marco's smile fell, and it was clear that he had noticed. "We don't have to do this, you know."

"Yes we do," Jean said firmly. "No chickening out now. We've gotta catch Mikasa's attention somehow."

"Is this really about Mikasa?" Marco asked, his voice soft beneath the thud of music. "What are you trying to prove? She's not coming back, Jean, I'm sorry, but she… she sounded so _happy_ on the phone—"

Jean scoffed. "Happy," he said, yanking on his gloves. "Sure. Maybe she was faking it, ever think of that?"

"Mikasa doesn't seem like the type to fake being happy," Marco said, his eyes following the trail of smoke that trailed from Jean's lips. "If she was miserable, she'd say so, I think. And anyway, didn't Mikasa say she didn't like heroes?"

Jean pulled on a kevlar vest, and shook his head. He'd been thinking about this. He'd been thinking about Mikasa, and her sudden relocation to New York City, and Nio and Freiheit's disappearance from Chicago and rumored appearance in New York. Jean was incredibly self-aware of his own intelligence— or rather, lack there of. Jean had a tendency to do stupid, reckless things, and say stupid, offensive things, and never notice until it was too late. But this time, Jean had stopped to think, and he knew.

"I think Mikasa's Nio," Jean said, picking up one of the semi automatic handguns he'd bought from the guy who supplied his weed. He didn't want to look at Marco, afraid that his friend would be giving him that damn _look_. The warm, disbelieving, almost pitying look. So Jean began to check out the gun to make sure it was ready to be fired if need be.

"You think so?"

Jean looked down at Marco, who was smiling vacantly. The gun in Jean's hands weighed heavily. _Why am I doing this again?_ he couldn't help but think wildly. "Yeah," Jean said thickly, setting the handgun down on his bed. "I'm sure she is. That's why she was acting so weird about it when I showed her the video. Like, come on. Those moves were Mikasa's, and we both know it. And you remember when Mikasa told us about her real parents?"

"Yeah…" Marco nodded slowly. "Her mother was Buddhist. So… clearly Mikasa named her super hero identity after the Nio guardians of Buddhism, right?" Marco smiled, but Jean was a little irritated by his disbelief.

"If you don't want to do this," Jean said sharply, "go home, Marco."

"I never said I didn't want to," Marco said, sounding alarmed. He looked alarmed too, and he leaned back in shock. "I'm just a little concerned, okay? This is something really, really serious, and I'm kinda worried that we might… I don't know… just fuck up really, really badly…"

"How could we fuck up?" Jean asked, frowning to himself. He knew, of course, that the ways were innumerous.

"Um," Marco said with a short, nervous laugh, "you could kill someone?" He pointed to the guns on the bed, and Jean scowled.

"I won't kill anyone," Jean said with a sigh. "These are just a precaution. Like, for safety. And stuff. I only got two so you could have one."

"I'm not carrying a gun," Marco said firmly.

"You need to protect yourself somehow," Jean pointed out.

"Well," Marco said, shrugging, "give me your taser, then."

"You seriously would get that close to your enemy?" Jean shook his head, and he pulled the taser from his belt and tossed it to Marco in disbelief. It was such a shitty taser too. "Fine. We probably won't even need it."

"So… we're really doing this?" Marco sounded very uncertain, and Jean couldn't help but be annoyed. He didn't _need _to be here.

"Yeah." Jean nodded, and he pulled the cigarette from his lips and snuffed it out in a discolored dish he'd stolen from his kitchen about a year ago that no one had missed or gone looking for. He turned to face Marco, who had been ready for just about the last hour or so, but had waited patiently for Jean to quit ogling at his new guns. The sun was dipping pretty low in the sky, so Jean figured it was about time to get moving.

They didn't have any trouble sneaking out. Jean's parents were working, and Marco's parents just… didn't care. Jean was always a little concerned about his best friend, because he couldn't understand how Marco could be so cheerful when his parents were clearly neglectful. They had known each other for about three years, and Jean had caught a glimpse of Marco's mother once. Once! He'd never spoken to her, and she hadn't even acknowledged his presence. Whenever Jean asked, Marco just said that he was used to it, and that it didn't matter.

"So how's good ol' Lizzie these days?" Jean asked. They were sitting on the roof of the hospital that Marco often spent his spare time volunteering at. Sometimes Jean didn't see Marco for days at a time, and Marco would admit that he'd been busy with volunteer work, and Jean just… didn't get it.

Marco laughed beside him, his body blending into the darkness around them except for his face, which he refused to cover. He said that it made him feel like a criminal to wear a mask. "Oh, jeez," Marco said, resting his arm on his knee. "If she heard you call her that, she'd probably give you a slap."

"Gosh," Jean said dryly. "I'm shaking in my boots. Elizabeth, then."

"She's fine," Marco said distantly. He turned his face out toward the cityscape around them. "Tired. She works a lot."

"Yup." Jean knew. Because she never actually seemed to give a notice to her son. "Hey, what do you think we should call ourselves?"

"Like…" Marco blinked at him. "Superhero names?"

"Yeah," Jean said. "I mean, we've gotta have codenames, and stuff. It's just… it's just the thing to do."

"How many comic books did you read this week in preparation for this?" Marco asked gently.

"Um," Jean said, scratching his head and frowning. "A… fuck ton, to be honest."

Marco had to stifle his laughter, and Jean smiled wanly. "Okay, okay," Marco said, holding his hands out. "Lemme think for a second."

"Something cool," Jean reminded. "Like, I don't want an unfortunate super hero name, because that would suck."

"What kind of unfortunate superhero name?" Marco asked, blinking at Jean with curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "What constitutes as unfortunate to you?"

"Well…" Jean shrugged. "This kid in the Young Avengers, Wiccan, he initially went by the name Asgardian, but he decided to change it when he… came out…" Jean studied Marco's face, and he scowled. "You don't care at all, do you?"

"What?" Marco blinked rapidly, and he shook his head. "No, no, I—"

"Nope." Jean lay back on the roof, watching the cloudy sky idly. "I can take a hint."

"I didn't give one," Marco argued. "Like, at all. Come on, tell me more about your superhero st—" He paused as the radio at his hip hissed into life, alerting them both to a robbery in progress. They glanced at each other, and jumped to their feet.

"Is that close?" Jean asked, pulling the cable from his belt and unwinding it.

"Yeah…" Marco nodded, pulling his hood up over his head and glancing around. "Yeah, it's just a few blocks away."

"Okay…" Jean looked around, and eyed on of the nearby buildings, which was not as tall as the hospital, and thus there was a drop between them. Jean met Marco's eye, and he smirked. "Okay. We've gotta make it there before the police."

"And not die on the way," Marco said cheerily, though his cheer was definitely forced, and a little sarcastic. He took the cable from Jean and hooked the end of it to his belt, stepping up onto the ledge of the roof. "I'm going first, if that's okay."

"Sure, dude," Jean said, his eyes following the twisting of the cable through Marco's gloved fingers. "Be careful."

"Duh," Marco said, standing on the tips of his toes and peering downward. "You know, I feel like there should be some music playing right about now. Maybe like… Imagine Dragons, or—"

"Are you stalling?" Jean couldn't help but grin. "I can go first."

"Um, no," Marco laughed, stepping off the ledge and backing up slowly. "I was just making sure I can actually make the jump."

"Sure you can."

"Well," Marco said, his right leg extending in preparation, and his shoulders rolling back. "Here's to hoping!"

Jean jolted in surprise as Marco went running, his feet kicking off the ledge and hurling his body over it. Jean sped to the edge to watch Marco curl before impact, his body flipping and managing to roll into a landing. He jumped up and waved his arms, a sign that he was okay, and Jean released the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings for a few moments, and then he backed up. It was an easy jump. He could make it.

He met the open air without much hesitation. At the back of his mind, Jean could hear his own voice chiding him about his crazy and stupid this all was. He was going to get himself killed. He literally just jumped from a fucking building. And, miraculously, he landed unscathed, his body rolling easily against the surface of the roof. His shoulder felt mildly bruised from the impact, but Jean couldn't help but thinking it should be a lot worse. Marco helped him to his feet, and smiled, then pointed to their next target. This building was taller, and thus a bigger challenge.

"This is gonna be fun," Jean remarked. He was breathless, shot through with adrenaline and completely stunned by the feeling of free air beneath him. Marco's laugh was sharp, anxious, and empty.

"We can do it," he assured Jean. He unwound the cable in his hands, raising his chin and squinting at the building before them. "I'm gonna go first again. I think I can catch that pole up there."

"Dude," Jean said. "I trust you. Just hurry, because we need to get there before—"

"Done," Marco said, pulling the cord taught at his waist. He glanced at Jean, who stared at him blankly, and he smiled vacantly. "I was a boy scout."

"Wow," Jean said dryly, "and I'm surprised because…?"

"Whatever," Marco said, shaking his head and testing the strength of the cord with another sharp tug. "I'm investing in a grappling gun."

"Uh," Jean said. "Wow, you can afford that?"

"It's a necessity," Marco sighed, adjusting his hood and walking along the length of the roof. "If we're going to be doing this on a regular basis…"

"Fuck yeah…" Jean murmured, watching with mild awe as Marco leapt from the roof top and maneuvering himself carefully so he kicked off the building and used the momentum to push himself upwards instead of letting gravity suck him down. When he made it to the roof, Jean saw the cable come sailing back to him, and he caught it easily, buckling it to his belt and testing it until it went taut.

Jean leapt again, and this time it was a little different. He had to flip, and use his momentum to steer himself upward, and it was the most terrifying and thrilling thing he'd ever experienced, fighting gravity with the skin of his teeth, and shifting his weight just so slightly so he could maintain balance and pull himself up, and up, until finally Marco's hand reached and caught him by the forearm. Jean had to stop for a moment to catch his breath, standing at the edge of the building and shaking a little from the shock.

After that, they had it pretty easy. They didn't try anything too dangerous, like doing flips as they ran from one building to another. They weren't quite comfortable enough with the exercise of it to get all fancy. They began to laugh whenever they landed, supporting each other and nodding quickly, never speaking a word, and moving on. They had work to do.

They finally came upon the electronics store that was being heisted, and for a moment, they were a little at a loss for what to do. Then, without warning, Marco slid down, using their cord like a rope, and he was on the ground before Jean could even think about what to do next. Jean was amazed, honestly, because he was aware of how much Marco really didn't want to do this.

There was the distant sound of an alarm going off as Jean jumped down too, skulking quietly behind Marco and eyeing the broken glass that littered the sidewalk. He unhooked the cord from his waist, and listened. There were sirens wailing faintly in the distance. There was a van parked out front, the back doors swung open, but it appeared empty.

Marco locked eyes with Jean, and jerked his chin at it. Jean nodded, knowing exactly what Marco was thinking, and pulled the switchblade from his belt. Marco crept closer to the shop while Jean slashed at the back tires of the van, and then quietly rounded to the front to slash those ones as well. He ducked as he listened to the distant murmuring of voices. His heart was pounding very hard, and he was sweating fucking madly, and it was making him really uncomfortable and nervous, and he felt like he needed a smoke real bad, but there was no time for that shit right now, because Jean and Marco needed to do this and prove to themselves that they could do this, that they could be heroes.

Jean made his way back onto the sidewalk, glancing at Marco, who had pressed himself to the wall beside the shattered window, his face shadowed by his hood. Jean heard a soft, excruciatingly sharp crunching sound emit from beneath his boot. _Oh_, Jean thought, his heart thudding in his chest. _Oh fuck, oh fuck_—

Jean saw Marco's eyes glowing white in the darkness beneath his hood, terror glistening there as they stared at each other, voices stopping suddenly upon the sharp sound of a foot breaking glass disturbed their robbery. Jean inhaled sharply, and stared into the depths of the dark electronics store as a flashlight's beam hit his face, effectively blinding him for a moment.

"Who the fuck is that?" a panicked voice asked.

"Fuck," another rasped, less panicked and more furious. A shadow came very close to the window, and Jean watched in terror as a man stepped up onto the shattered windowsill. Glass crunched beneath his feet, and he sneered in the dimness of the streetlights. "Get out of here, kid."

_How'd he know I'm a kid?_ Jean thought glumly. Jean didn't think he looked like a kid. He was tall, and it wasn't like the guy could see Jean's face or anything. Maybe Jean just gave off an air of adolescence. Fuck, that pissed him off!

"No," Jean said. He saw Marco mouth drop open out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't care. "How about _you _get out of there?"

_Idiot_, Jean thought, taking an instinctual step back as the man's eyes lit up with rage. He stepped out of the window, and his hands moved to the holster at his side. _Jean, you are gonna fucking kill yourself, and probably Marco too, and this is all to impress a girl who is so, so, so out of your league, and you're gonna fucking die a stoner who never amounted to anything, even though you had your entire life paved out before you, you had to fuck it all up, jesus fucking chri_—

A furious buzzing noise attacked the air as the man convulsed suddenly, his entire body clenching up and his body dropping like a weight upon the glass speckled concrete, and Jean stood stunned for a moment, his eyes moving wildly from the man on the ground to Marco, who stood over him with large eyes. In his left hand was that shitty fucking taser.

"Oh, thank fucking god," Jean blurted, a goofy grin appearing on his lips.

"I'm flattered," Marco said, his voice remarkably calm for a guy who had just tased a burglar. "But no, not quite."

"Ha ha." Jean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay, thank freckled Jes—"

Jean was cut off by a charging body hurling itself at him, and he cried out, throwing himself to the ground and blinking wildly as he slid across the pavement, glass shredding his black training pants, and imbedding itself in his arm. He didn't feel it, so he had to assume it didn't break skin. He felt a little rush of panic as the second guy picked himself up and dove at Jean, his fist flying and connecting with Jean's stomach. Pain spiked through him, and he let out a pained little gasp, his body buckling as the man drew back and punched him again in the ribs, and again and again, and Jean coughed and spluttered, shocked and shaking from the blows, and Jean saw something flash in the darkness, something gleaming and jagged, and Jean threw his head back and howled as the bit of glass dug into his bicep.

"Hey!" Through the vivid pain, Jean could hear Marco's voice. Jean blinked away the stars from his vision, and squinted into the darkness. He saw Marco standing steadily about a foot away, his right hand tight on the grip of a semiautomatic handgun not dissimilar to the ones holstered to Jean's vest, and his left hand supporting the base. The barrel of the gun was pointed straight at the head of the man beating Jean's to a fine pulp. "Get off him. Now."

The guy looked up at Marco, and he had the audacity to laugh. Jean stared at him in bemusement, blood trickling from his nose and into his mouth, and he could not believe it. _This guy is even more stupid than I am_, Jean thought. That thought was comforting. The man grasped Jean by the front of his vest, and he rattled him a little.

"C'mon, kid," the man said. His voice was frustratingly condescending, and Jean exhaled sharply, glancing down at the shard of glass buried in his arm. "Can you even use that gun?"

Marco's warm eyes blinked vacantly down at the man. Jean saw how steady his hand was, and Jean thought, awed, that Marco was so much better at this than he was. And then, Marco lifted the gun up and angled it toward the air, and the sound of a bullet being spat into the sky echoed against the heavy city sounds of sirens and distant music and chatter and laughter and something rustling in a nearby alley. The man holding Jean jumped, visibly startled by the fact that Marco had lifted the safety without alerting either of them, and Jean watched as the gun was lowered once again to the level of the man's eyes.

"You know," Marco said, his voice the same soft tone that he used to ask if everything was okay, how was your day, can I have those chips, why does your music suck, Jean, "I think I'll manage."

The man's grip loosened just enough for Jean to wrap his fingers around the glass biting into his arm, and rip it out. The man's eyes met Jean's only for a moment before Jean stabbed the shard into his leg, and kicked his face in as he rolled backwards and bounced to his feet, nearly losing his balance. He clamped his hand over his bleeding arm and watched as Marco swung the butt of the handgun, whacking the man over the head and watching him crumple. Jean wasted no time in scooping up the cable he had dropped and leaping over the unconscious man, kicking the face of the one stirring from his tased stupor into the sidewalk.

"Thought you didn't want a gun," Jean said, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth as he spoke. He tied the man's hands behind his back with the cable, tears prickling in his eyes from the pain of the wound in his arm.

"I don't," Marco said, tossing the handgun aside. It clattered against the pavement. "But if it's between your life and shooting someone, it's not exactly a hard choice."

Jean paused. He stared down at the cable, and the blood streaming from the man's nose and staining the concrete red, and he was couldn't help but be stunned by Marco's words. He quickly tied off the cable, and turned to face his friend, his eyebrows furrowing. "You'd really shoot someone for me?" he asked slowly. He didn't know why he was so shocked. Marco was fiercely loyal, and though he was genuinely one of the nicest people Jean had ever met, he could also be kind of scary sometimes.

Marco laughed, and playfully slugged Jean's good shoulder. "Duh," Marco said. He glanced around, and tugged his hood further over his face. The distant sirens were not so distant anymore. "We need to go, though. Like, now."

"Oh," Jean said, blinking fast. "Shit, wow, right, okay. Uh—"

Marco grabbed Jean's arm and yanked him down the nearest alley, and suddenly they were sprinting like the devil was at their heels. Jean didn't dare look back to see if there were red and blue lights bouncing from the street they'd fled from, and he couldn't even feel his injuries anymore. All he felt was the thundering of his heart, his feet against the asphalt, and Marco's hand on his arm, all steady reassurances that he was alive and that they'd succeeded, and that was all that mattered.

It was four in the morning when they snuck back into Jean's apartment, and by then Jean was in intense pain. "Fuck, fuck—" Jean squeezed his eyes shut as he peeled his shirt off over his arm wound. "Fuckin'—"

"Shh," Marco whispered, glancing worriedly at the door. "The last thing we need is for your mom to wake up. Just hold still, it'll only take a second."

"Right," Jean breathed, nodded furiously. He stuck the gauze he'd cut for his arm between his teeth, and tore open a bandage as Marco mopped up the blood from his arm. "Oh man, is this gonna scar?"

"Oh, definitely," Marco said. The rag stung the gash, and Jean couldn't help but grimace. Marco smiled apologetically, and he pressed the rag to the gash for a few moments. "If you let me stitch it up, it probably wouldn't, but you're a wimp, so…" He turned the rag to his face and spat on the smear of blood that was beginning to set into the fibers of the cloth. Jean couldn't help but stare at him blankly. Marco noticed, and Jean couldn't help but laugh a little as the warm hued skin behind his freckles turned faintly pink. "Saliva can get rid of small blood stains," Marco explained.

"How do you even know that?" Jean laughed, hugging one knee to his bare chest. "Like, damn. Spit on my carpet, why don't you?"

"You have carpet cleaner in the cabinet under your sink in the kitchen," Marco said, rolling his eyes and laying the blood and saliva soaked rag over a basin of water. "I'll take care of it after I glue your arm shut."

"Yeah," Jean said, nodding. "Do it."

"It's gonna hurt," Marco said, no longer smiling. He picked up the bottle of superglue that Jean had kept in his belt. They hadn't stopped running until they'd returned to Jean's apartment building, so it was unsurprising that they hadn't managed to glue the wound shut until now. Marco unscrewed the cap, staring Jean straight in the eye. And Jean couldn't help but feel a little stir of panic inside him, because Marco tried very, very hard to keep things lighthearted. His serious demeanor fell through quickly enough. "I mean, probably not more then, you know, getting stabbed with broken glass, but it'll burn."

"You're pouring glue into an open wound," Jean said, rolling his eyes as Marco picked up his arm, leveling the bottle of superglue over the gash. "I'd expect nothing— oh, _mother__**fu**_—!" A searing pain shot through his arm as the glue met the tender, broken skin, and Jean stuck the gauze back in his mouth and bit down on it until he felt like his teeth were going to crack. And even then, he had to moan, his arm buckling feebly, and he wanted to punch Marco for being a jerk and not giving him a fucking warning before he stuck the adhesive into the profusely bleeding flesh wound. "Oh, fucking, fuck, fuck, shit, fu—!"

Marco shook his head, and slapped the bandage onto the now closed wound. Jean shoved him, or at least tried to, but he was on the verge of passing out. "Shh!" Marco gasped, pressing the bandaid to Jean's bicep. "You are seriously the worst at keeping quiet, Jean."

"Fuck," Jean muttered, pressing his bloody hand to his sweaty forehead.

Marco smiled wanly. "Go lay down," he suggested. "I can take care of clean up."

* * *

_These two are the epitome of stupid, and I hope I conveyed just how stupid they really are, because they dumb._

_I'll be updating every time I finish a chapter, so we'll see how that goes. I'm going to start thirteen after I do some homework, I think. Here's to praying that everything makes sense? Somewhere down the line. (I'm going to give the same warning here as I gave to Steph when she was reading it. Don't trust everything you read. The characters aren't reliable.)_


	5. on first sight

_**prima facie**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. Idus Septembres, 2766 A.U.C._

The initial offer had been, "Why don't you all stay the night?" Mikasa had accepted readily, not even bothering to ask Levi what he thought about it. Armin had accepted as well, explaining that they had planned to stay the night in New York anyway. Well, he'd accepted after he'd woken up. It turned out that he'd overloaded on his power. Mikasa was a little angry, because powers shouldn't overload. It wasn't fair that Armin had a limit like that.

Anyway, he had been okay in the end. A little weak, and a migraine worse for wear, but otherwise he was okay. And that was all that mattered. By that point, Hange, Levi, and Erwin had been talking about what to do. Mikasa was already sticking very close to Eren, listening to him talk about his life with Hange and how much better it was to be free, and Mikasa just nodded in agreement, but really she was just glad to be around him again.

Mikasa and Eren had squeezed themselves onto Armin's bed, and by that point they had all come to the silent conclusion that no one was separating them again. So the next morning, when they told their respective guardians that, as they all drank their coffee and watched the news about the previous day's drama, they simply stared at them blankly.

"Oh," Hange said with a laugh. "We know. Erwin saw it already."

"Unfortunately," Levi murmured, sipping at his tea.

"I'll need to find a job here in Manhattan," Erwin said, never looking at the three stunned teenagers. "But I've already made the arrangements. We'll go back over the weekend to gather our things, Armin."

"Okay," the boy said weakly. _Is this really happening?_ he thought to them, sounding rather dazed and giddy.

"What about you?" Mikasa asked, eying Levi suspiciously. He glanced at her, and sat back in his chair.

"What?" Levi asked.

"Are you staying?" Mikasa found it rather hard to believe that Levi would just stick with her through all of this, and even stay when he didn't need to take care of her anymore.

"If I was gonna leave, brat," Levi said, picking up his tea cup, "I would have left days ago."

_What an amazing asshole_, Mikasa thought over the mindlink.

_I dunno_, Eren thought back. He tilted his head, and shrugged. _He seems kinda cool_.

_So do serial killers_, Mikasa said. _But you don't go up and hug one_.

_Wait_, Armin thought, blinking at Mikasa. _Has Levi hugged you? Like, ever?_

_He once held onto me really tightly when I stuck my fingers down his throat to make him puke up the drugs he overdosed on_, Mikasa thought. She blinked, her eyes growing wide, and she rounded on Armin. "I didn't mean to think that."

"Are you guys talking to each other telepathically?" Hange asked eagerly.

"Um…" Armin said, his eyes on Mikasa's face. She couldn't look at him or Eren, who was looking wildly between Levi and Mikasa. "Yeah. We have a really, really strong connection. It never really faded from when we were younger."

"So you can just connect minds?" Hange's fingers danced in midair to gesticulate. These were poor gestures. "Just willy-nilly, connect 'em all?"

"No," Armin said, shaking his head. "It's more complicated than that. I connect my mind with someone else's, but that act alone takes a lot of focus and energy. The easiest way for me to connect with someone is to touch them. But…" Armin shifted uncomfortably, and Mikasa noticed how Levi's gaze grew darker, and his body went rigid. "It's not a pleasant experience. It's caused a lot of asthma attacks."

Hange's eyes sparkled with curiosity, and Mikasa frowned. They were watching Armin as though Armin was some sort of specimen that she wanted to dissect, and that was incredibly agitating to Mikasa. "Did you have asthma before you received your powers?" Hange asked Armin, pushing their chair out to face the trio.

Armin stood for a moment, looking stunned and a little bemused, and Eren glanced at him with a frown. After nearly a minute of silence, Eren spoke up, raising his head high. "No," Eren said. "He didn't."

Through the mindlink, Eren said, _What's up with you?_

Armin looked away, and Mikasa watched him bite his split, bloated lower lip. He took a deep breath, and looked toward the three adults with an air of resignation. "I can't remember much before the procedure," Armin said slowly, wringing his hands in an anxious, uncertain fashion. "I barely remember anything from the institute aside from Eren and Mikasa… and I guess the surgery too. But I feel like the entirety of it was just… a dream, honestly." Armin's eyes were wide, and he glanced at Eren and Mikasa apologetically, as though his words could hurt them somehow. "None of it feels like it was real."

"Hey," Eren said, clapping him on the shoulder. Armin jumped in alarm, his eyes darting across Eren's face confusedly. "No biggie. You think I remember half the shit that happened at that place? Hell, I can't even remember its name, or how long we were there. I just remember… you know, vague stuff."

"Really…?" Armin asked, sounding awed and relieved. He looked to Mikasa, who had to look away. "Mikasa…?"

"My memories of it are hazy too," she admitted. "I remember a lot, but it's hard to remember the details."

"Huh," Hange said. They turned to face Levi and Erwin, and they leaned forward anxiously. "So what about you two? You were there too. How intact are your memories of the place?"

"I can remember it fine," Erwin said. He brought his coffee cup to his lips, and glanced at Levi. "And you, Levi?"

"Crystal fucking clear," Levi replied dully.

"So," Hange said, resting back in their seat, "it's possible that this institution did something to the kids. Can you guys remember if they medicated you or not?"

Armin blinked rapidly, and glanced at Eren and Mikasa. All he could do was shrug helplessly, and Mikasa felt her stomach squirm. Could he really not remember that much? Well, it might be for the best. The institution wasn't the funnest of times, and Mikasa had no idea what Armin had actually went through to receive his mental powers. For all she knew, it could have been so hellish that it was the reason he had trouble remembering.

"I wasn't," Mikasa said firmly. "Armin and Eren were, though."

"Huh," Hange said. Their eyes moved across Mikasa's face. "Why not you?"

"Mikasa's powers are natural," Eren said, answering for Mikasa. She was thankful. She hadn't really had a reply. "She never got any procedure to get her strength."

"Neither did I," Levi said. "The wings were given to me, though."

"What about you, Erwin?" Hange asked. The quiet, calm man who had taken care of Armin for five years was frowning into his coffee cop. Mikasa didn't know very much about him, other than that he could see the future, and he was Levi's old friend from the institute.

"My power is not, by any means, natural," Erwin said thoughtfully. He glanced at Armin, and rested his mug against the table. "But my memories were not altered by the surgery required to gain my precognition."

"Maybe because precognition is different than telepathy," Armin suggested. "A different part of the mind."

"Maybe."

She and Armin were enrolled in the same school of Eren by the time they'd just about permanently moved in with him. It was a preparatory school, so the three of them had to wear uniforms. Mikasa didn't mind, because she hated picking out outfits in the morning, but she felt a bit out of place. She and Armin had never gone to a private school before, and neither of them felt very comfortable walking in the first time. Eren seemed to have them covered, though, strutting through the halls with long, angry strides, his eyes flashing as though he dared anyone to approach them.

Mikasa felt a little guilty when she skyped Jean and Marco to inform them that she was okay. Jean seemed particularly stunned to find that she was staying in New York, and Mikasa had no idea why he was so upset. It wasn't any of his concern what she did with her life, so she couldn't fathom why he was so alarmed by her absence. She figured he'd get over it.

Levi and Mikasa had ended up on the streets once or twice as Freiheit and Nio, but so far the six of them had not gone out patrolling together. It was probably better this way. They all had very, very different methods of crimefighting. Freiheit and Nio patrolled in the dark. The were rarely seen outside of their comfort zone, which was mostly beating up bad guys and hoping they stayed in jail. Mikasa knew from the news that Rogue and Polymath were completely different with their modus operandi. They were very loud and colorful, just begging to be noticed by the media. Their identities weren't even well protected. Eren had a mask, sure, and Hange wore tinted goggles, but it was nothing that really hid their identities _well_. They didn't seem to care, though. They wanted to kick ass, and they did it on their own terms. Mikasa had to admire that. Augur and Cicero were almost entirely off the radar. They were more like speculations than actual heroes, and that made them more popular for some reason. Armin and Erwin never actually fought, which Mikasa found incredible. They fought crime without every actually having to fight. She was almost jealous.

It was a hot, dreary September afternoon, and Mikasa sat sullenly in algebra class, her work already finished and her eyes cast toward the clock. Levi had promised to teach Armin and Eren how to shoot a gun, and Mikasa wanted to find a way to intercept the lesson. If Eren and Armin wanted to learn how to shoot, fine. But Mikasa wanted to be the one to teach them. It was only fair.

Through the thickness of the summer air, and the dull, heavy humidity, Mikasa felt Armin's mind shudder. It was like her hand pressing against his bare back. She could feel the shudder like a shiver rushing down his spine, like the spasm of a muscle, and she jolted in her seat from the sensation of it. She twisted to face him, only a seat behind her, and she saw that his face had been washed out, drained of all color and life as though something had spooked him into a petrified state.

_What's wrong? _Mikasa asked worriedly. Eren was missing class because he'd fallen asleep fifth period, and so he was in the main office, or the library, where he was probably checking his blood sugar. Mikasa wondered if he'd just fallen asleep again wherever he ended up.

_I…_ Armin sounded distant. His voice fluttered inside Mikasa's head, and then it broke pitifully. _I have no idea. I just felt something… weird. Like a mental shove_. He turned his face toward the window, where clouds were gathering in the sky, fluffy and dark and squishing together rapidly in order to form one overreaching gray mass. Mikasa watched, frowning in concern as his hands began to shake against his pencil, which drew lightly across his open notebook in a series of uncontrolled strokes. He didn't even seem to notice. _I feel like I almost had something, like there's this taste in my head that I can't quite get rid of, and I can feel it rolling around in my mouth, but I can't touch it. There's something there, and I know that, but I think there's something blocking my senses— like a wall, or something_.

_Do you think it's someone like Erwin?_ Mikasa asked. She knew that Armin could not read Erwin's mind, and Hange had come to the conclusion that it was because Erwin's mental powers counteracted Armin's. The powers simply repelled each other. Mikasa wondered if it was the same with Erwin seeing Armin's future. She wondered if the man had ever tried.

_No_, Armin thought, his head shaking almost furiously. _No, it's not like that. Erwin… Erwin doesn't have any sort of presence, or taste, or feeling. Erwin's mind is completely unreachable to me, so there's nothing there to really block my power. There's no reason to block something that can't hurt you. But there is literally something pressing up against my mind, and blocking my ability to pick up thought frequency, and it kind of hurts_.

"Hurts?" Mikasa blurted aloud. Armin stared at her blankly, and then his eyes rose upward. Mikasa felt the prickling sensation of someone standing over her, and she felt the need to throw a punch on pure instinct. When she looked up, her teacher was frowning down at her. She had the first seat closest to the window, so she undoubtedly had caught her teacher's attention.

"I'd appreciate silence," the teacher said curtly, her eyes flitting between Mikasa and Armin. "Thank you."

Mikasa slumped in her seat, and glowered at the woman's back as she turned around. _What does that mean?_ Mikasa asked, her head angling back at Armin.

_It means_, Armin said, his mental voice sounding spent and shaky and solemn, _that I feel like something is crushing me_.

Mikasa sat silently for a few moments, her eyes moving toward the window and then to the clock. It ticked away viciously, and every rapid click of the arms moving was a pang through her heart. _If you want to leave_, Mikasa said suddenly, _I'll create a distraction. You can run out. Get Eren_.

_Don't be silly_, Armin said. He laughed inside Mikasa's head, and it was calming to know that he wasn't in too much pain_. I don't even know what this is yet. I don't even know if it's a person_.

_What else could it be?_

_I don't know_, Armin sighed. _My powers are weird, Mikasa_.

She couldn't deny that.

After about five minutes of weighing their options, Armin sighed softly behind her. She could hear relief, but also exhaustion perched upon his short exhalation. Mikasa wondered if it was just their connection acting overtime, or if Armin was just that stressed from the overload of his power. Mikasa hated that she couldn't help him. She hated that Armin was hurting, and that she couldn't bear the load, and that she just could not understand his burden.

_It's okay_, _Mikasa_, Armin said gently, his voice echoing softly inside her head. _I'm okay now. The feeling's gone_.

Mikasa didn't think it was okay. She didn't think it was okay that Armin had been forced into this life of constant hypersensitivity, of voices and feelings that he could not control or block out. She wished the institution had never touched him or Eren. She wished she could have just protected them before any of this had happened.

Later that day, Mikasa and Armin found Eren sitting in the library, violently punching the buttons of a black 3Ds. Mikasa had already ditched her sweater, tying it around her waist to let some cool hair reach her bare arms. There was a handkerchief tied to her wrist to hide her tattoo, as usual, and she tightened it a little as she glanced at Armin. She felt sorry for him, because he refused to wear short sleeves or take off his gloves. Eren had ditched his sweater vest, and it was bunched on the table beside his schoolbag, and the small pouch he used to keep all of his diabetic supplies in.

"What were you doing all day?" Armin asked after Eren's character had died, and he spat a few vicious curses before slamming the little black console shut and tossing it onto the table with a scowl.

"Sleeping," Eren grumbled. He began to gather his things into his bookbag. "Well, kinda sleeping. I was sent to Guidance, and they were all like, panicky and shit because they thought I had an attack, or somethin'." Eren rolled his eyes, and stretched his arms back. "So they made me sit in here for a few hours."

"Are you alright?" Mikasa asked hurriedly, stepping toward him. He blinked at her, looking confused and a little irritated.

"Uh, yeah," he said, rising to his feet and tossing his bag over his shoulder. "I didn't actually have anything wrong with me. But, you know. Precautions. That stuff."

"It's understandable," Armin said softly. Mikasa couldn't help but glance at him worriedly. She was still concerned about what had happened that afternoon. But he seemed to be taking it well, so that was a relief, at the very least.

"Yeah, well, it's annoying." Eren ruffled his hair, and exited the library with every expectation of them to follow. They did without comment. "Levi is picking us up, right?"

"Yes," Mikasa said, her voice low and bitter. She knew he was a pretty skilled driver, but she didn't trust him to drive safely with Eren and Armin in the car. However, as Hange's official bodyguard, he had to make sure that their son got to and from school safely.

He'd been a little pissed off that he now had to play chauffeur. It made Mikasa delightfully amused.

"Well, we should get him to stop by some stores so we can get stuff for your rooms," Eren said as they walked through the halls. "Because frankly, they're boring as fuck, and all that blandness reminds me of the institution."

"We have stuff from our homes," Armin said, sounding surprised. "I mean, my room was pretty small, so my stuff doesn't exactly fill up the space, but—"

"Well, exactly," Eren said, whirling around to face Armin, still walking steadily backwards. "You guys should at least have TVs in your rooms. I hate fallin' asleep without the TV on, so I dunno how y'all can stand it."

Mikasa listened to his voice slip into a faint drawl, and she glanced at him curiously. _I wonder_, Mikasa thought vacantly, _where Eren was raised before Dr. Jaeger brought him to the institute_. They had met after Mikasa's parents had been murdered. Eren had been with Dr. Jaeger when they had came to investigate, and Eren had been the one to find the panic room Mikasa had been locked in, and he had been the one to cajole her out of the house.

"I like the silence," Armin admitted. Mikasa watched him fiddle with his gloves, and she pitied him as he smiled. "It's not very often that I just hear… nothing, you know?"

"Oh," Eren said. He blinked rapidly, and whirled around, nodding slowly to show that he understood.

"It's not that I don't like watching TV," Armin said hurriedly. "I do."

"I'd be a little freaked out if you didn't," Eren said, pushing open the doors. The three of them were met by a tightly packed wall of heat that smacked them in the face, taking them by surprise. Mikasa unbuttoned the collar of her shirt. She glanced at Armin, but he seemed relatively unfazed by the heat. Perhaps he was just used to baking in long sleeves and layers.

"Ha ha," Eren breathed, slumping against the humidity. "Shit."

"Summer is brutal," Armin murmured.

"Summer should go away," Eren said, starting down the steps as he hooked the straps of his backpack over his shoulder. Mikasa followed him silently, scooping up her hair and lifting it from her neck to let air dry the sweat gathering there. As she did so, she froze, her body buckling as a familiar jolt shuddered through the mindlink. Eren jumped as well, and he whirled around to face Armin.

"What the hell was that?"

But Armin was staring straight ahead, his eyes glassy and distant, and Mikasa could see him shaking, see that there was something clearly troubling him. He snapped out of it quickly, and his eyes darted around suddenly, his body curling into itself as though he had gotten a chill. Which was ridiculous, because he was wearing a few layers of clothing on a very hot day.

"There's…" Armin breathed, hugging his arms to his chest. "There's someone here…"

"What?" Eren asked, his eyes darting around as well. Mikasa found herself looking around too, but there was nothing but a few kids loitering on the steps. "What does that mean? Someone like who?"

"I don't know," Armin said, his eyes squeezing shut. "I don't… know, but… there's something so… so _familiar_ about this—" He stopped, his eyes snapping open, and he stared straight ahead. Through their connection, Mikasa could feel it. The tight feeling of something moving closer, something frigid and constricting, something like a massive wall of ice slipping between the three of them, severing their links with the precision of a master sculptor.

Mikasa and Eren followed Armin's gaze.

Standing at the foot of the steps was a girl. She wasn't wearing the uniform, so it was clear she didn't go to the school, and instead she was wearing a pair of tight black shorts and a worn white hoodie, which was pulled up over her face. Something prickled Mikasa's dusty, undisturbed memories, and Mikasa stared at the girl with wariness creeping uneasily through her chest.

The girl was staring right back at them, watching with her chilly gaze, and Mikasa didn't know what to do. There was no mistaking her. It had been a few years, but there was no way to forget a face like that. She was still unbearably small, but not quite so tiny and frail as she had been at the institution. She looked healthier now, with a flush on her cheeks and life in her eyes. And she took a step back, her expression unchanging, a curtain of blonde hair falling into her icy eye.

"Annie?" Eren blurted, his eyes shooting wide with alarm and excitement.

Annie Leonhardt's droopy blue eyes flickered to Eren's face. Mikasa could feel Armin's mental grip rattle against their blocked connection, his irritation growing and warping until he broke through the ice glazing the ribbons linking their minds, and pulled them all back together again. Before he could solidify it, however, Annie spun on the heel of her beaten, mud caked sneakers, and she bolted from the steps and straight to the front gate. Mikasa stood for a moment, stunned, and she blinked as Eren streaked past her in a blur of white and black and brown.

"Eren—" she choked. And then, suddenly, she was running after him.

She could hear Armin calling after her as she ran, but she could not let Eren out of her sight, no matter what, and she felt guilty for it but she couldn't help it. She had to keep Eren out of trouble, and for all Mikasa knew, Annie was trouble. Where had she even _come_ from? Where had she been all these years? Why resurface now? No, Mikasa didn't like it.

_Mikasa!_ Armin's voice was strained inside her head. _Eren! What's going on? Who is she?_

_Annie_, Eren thought harshly. _What, you don't remember Annie? _

_No_, Armin said weakly._ I… Oh, god, I don't remember her per se, but I know her. I know I know her, I can sense that she's been in my head before, but I don't remember ever seeing her before. Was she at the institute too?_

_Yeah_, Mikasa said darkly. _She's got ice powers._

_That makes sense_, Armin said glumly. He wasn't lagging too far behind, but Mikasa was growing worried. He had asthma, after all. _Why are we chasing her?_

_She was hurting you_, Mikasa said. _We should interrogate her_.

_What?_ Eren snapped. _What do you mean, she was hurting Armin?_ Mikasa watched him swerve, turning a corner sharply as he continued to pursue Annie.

_In class_, Mikasa said_, Armin felt like someone was crushing him. Mentally. It had to be her._

_Why the fuck would you jump to that conclusion without any basis?_ Eren asked. Mikasa was taken aback, and she felt a little shame as she rounded the corner after him, her feet clapping heavily against the pavement. Sweat was building beneath the folds of her uniform, and she could feel her shirt sticking to her skin uncomfortably.

_No, Mikasa's right_, Armin said quietly. _It was definitely her I felt earlier today, but I don't think she meant it malevolently. I think she's just… protecting herself_.

_By hurting you_, Mikasa said.

_I don't think she even knows she's doing it_, Armin said earnestly_. It could easily be a part of her power. A mental part_.

_But she's still hurting you_, Mikasa said, her hands balling into fists.

_She's protecting herself_, Armin said. _I won't condemn her for that. I don't even know her._

_Yes, you do!_ Eren cried, his voice echoing in their heads. Mikasa winced_. You just don't remember. Once we catch her, and let her know that we won't hurt her, you can talk to her, and then you'll remember._

_Eren, I don't think_— Mikasa started.

_No, it'll work_. Eren was gaining speed, and growing closer to the white blot that was Annie.

_Oka_y, Armin said. _Fine. That's fine. But we've got to actually catch her first, and frankly, I'm running out of steam_.

_Armin has asthma, Eren_, Mikasa reminded him carefully, her own voice sounding rather chiding in her own head.

_Oh_, Eren said. _Oh, fuck, right. Shit! Armin, don't run if it's hard to breathe, holy fuck_.

_You shouldn't be running either_, Mikasa said.

_Don't mom me, Mikasa, okay, I'm perfectly fine_.

_Eren_, Armin said, _how well do you know these streets?_

_Uh_, Eren said, _pretty well, I guess, I mean I usually walk to the subway this way, but_—

_I need you to mentally send me a layout of the streets_, Armin said. _You should be fast enough to be able to cut through an alley to get ahead of her. I'm going to stop and text Petra to see if she can give us a hand. Mikasa, you should keep running straight. I think there's construction up ahead— there was a sign, so I'm sure Annie knows, but there's got to be another sign coming up. If we can trap her in a dead end_—

_Sounds good_, Eren said, his thoughts a stream of roads intersecting and colliding, traffic lights glimmering inside bold green eyes and standing out starkly in the twisting ribbons of their mindlink. Mikasa continued to run forward, her shiny black shoes scuffing against the sidewalk as she sped forward with great ease. She wasn't remotely winded from the run, and was actually gaining some momentum from just keeping up the rhythm of her legs pushing off the concrete and making fast, long strides. She was hot, true, and the heat was causing her clothes to stick uncomfortably to her skin— she could feel how slick her abdomen was with sweat, and her hair was growing damp and falling into her eyes, twisting in dark, damp strands about her cheeks.

_Eren, turn left,_ Armin ordered, his voice a startling command. _That alley should spit you out near the construction zone. Turn right, and you'll be on this road again, just farther up, and then go straight and you'll be at a dead end. Okay?_

_Got it_, Eren said, swerving suddenly with his feet almost skidding across the walkway, and he flung himself between two buildings, disappearing into the cover of cars and gray, shimmery glass. Mikasa kept forward, gaining speed with every step, and she got closer and closer to Annie's tiny blur of a body, observing her like a passing blinking confusedly at a dog gnawing on a bone, strings of meat still clinging to the discolored appendage.

_Guys, Petra said she'd do it_, Armin said softly. _But I might be out of range soon. I'm going to try and keep up, but if I disappear it's because you'll be too far for my mind to reach you._

_Then me and Mikasa won't be able to communicate_, Eren pointed out. _How will I know if Annie's coming?_

_You should be able to see her_, Armin said_. If you don't, then text me, or something_.

_Armin, how come you have Petra's number?_ Mikasa asked.

_I asked for it_, Armin said_, because I figured it's always good to have a hacker on speed dial. I mean, I know how to do some coding, but that's baby stuff. Petra took Auruo Bossard off the FBI watch list, and they never noticed_.

_Did she tell you that?_ Mikasa asked.

_No_, Armin said. _Erwin did_.

Mikasa wasn't sure what that meant. But she couldn't focus on it. She had to keep going forward, keep gaining on Annie, keep focused on their mission at hand. Armin fell out of range around that point, and Mikasa felt the emptiness in her head like swallowing an ice cube. It slid awkwardly through her, cold and painful, and she wished for Armin and Eren's voices to just soothe the vacuous space.

Sure, Mikasa had known Annie. She recalled the girl, quiet and glum, sitting alone during classes and at lunch and in the common room, always sort of blending into the stark white walls as though she was waiting for them to consume her. She had a look in her eyes that Mikasa never really forgot. Dull, and cold, and lifeless, like the eyes of a living corpse who had resigned to a fate inconceivable to man. Mikasa had often avoided her just to shake her eerie gaze. Mikasa, who was passive and quiet on her own, was utterly unnerved by Annie.

But now she seemed different. There was something alive in her eyes, and there was something that had sparked in them upon coming in contact with Eren, Armin, and Mikasa. There was fear glimmering uncertainly, flashing as brightly as a flame, and then Mikasa watched it consume her, and drive her away. Mikasa felt the need to grab the girl by both her shoulders and shake her until she made sense.

Even after Annie's procedure she'd never really seemed alive. She would sometimes sit by the windows and touch the glass, watching vacantly as frost blossomed from the tips of her fingers, which were blackened and hard, and crawled swiftly across the surface with all the vivacity that Annie lacked. But then she'd notice Mikasa staring, and she'd slip on her gloves and edge away from the window, staring blankly at Mikasa until one of them averted their gaze.

Now there was an irksome urge to pivot on the shiny heels of her black shoes, and run in the opposite direction of Annie. There was an instinctual hatred inside Mikasa that she could not fathom or explain. Mikasa was not one to hate people without grounds, but Annie was an exception. There was something inhuman about her eyes, about her very existence inside Mikasa's wan, dusty memory, and Mikasa couldn't help but wish ill of her.

She was getting closer now, her long plaid, pleated skirt wavering below her knees, and she could hear the sound of the city pounding in her ears, cars whooshing by and horns beeping and construction— jackhammers and shouting and the furious wail of buildings shaking, like the apocalypse had come to devour Manhattan, and it all started with a wrongly placed blow to a slab of concrete. Mikasa's hair was no longer tickling her face, but it was blown back by the force of her flinging her body forward, and she felt wind against her face despite the overwhelming humidity, and the cool feeling of the rush only made her move faster, exhilarated and determined, until she could reach out and run the tips of her fingers across the back of Annie's heavy white hoodie.

Mikasa skidded to a stop as Annie was tackled in front of her, two bodies tangling and rolling into the road. Mikasa stood for a moment, stunned by this change of course, and she watched for a few moments as Eren tore Annie's hood back, snarling something at her that could not be heard over the din of construction. Annie was squirming, slipping out of his grip and driving her elbow into the side of his head, her arms shooting out and clapping against the road as she tried to drag herself out from under Eren, who was practically crushing her under his frame, and Mikasa watched with vague interest as the tiny blonde girl's gloved fingers scratched senselessly at the asphalt, not able to get any traction, and finally relenting to flipping herself onto her back and kicking Eren off her.

The sound of a car coming close caught Mikasa's attention. She saw it moving with a moderate slowness, but it was still going fast enough to crush Annie and Eren if it kept coming. Mikasa stepped onto the road, tightening her gray sweater around her waist, and she watched the car keep coming toward her. The driver probably expected her to move out of the way. She could see the confusion in his eyes as he came very close and slammed on the breaks a little too late. Mikasa's squared her shoulders and reached out, letting her arms take in most of the impact, and feeling the pressure as it reverberated through her bones. Her nails dug into the fender, and she watched the car tip forward precariously, its hind-wheels lifting off the ground. She exhaled sharply, and shoved the car very hard, listening to it fall back, and she met the eyes of the driver, who looked utterly terrified, and she whirled away. She had to pry her fingers from the indentations she had made in the hood of the car, but otherwise she was fine.

Eren's face was now a mess of bruises, and Annie's wasn't much better. They were both dirt caked, blood smeared messes, and Mikasa stood with a scowl. She was close enough to the wrestling duo to hear Eren's clipped, vicious pleading. "Annie, what the fuck— _Annie_—!" Annie's leg shot out, and her foot caught Eren in the chest. He still had her firmly by the arm, and as he went flying, so did she, his head colliding with the edge of the sidewalk and her body skidding across the ground into an unceremonious heap of limbs.

"What the _hell_?" the man behind them cried, exiting his car with a shaky uncertainty. Mikasa glanced at him, and all of a sudden Armin's voice flooded her head, rich and scared and alarmed. _What are you guys doing in the middle of the street?_

Annie lifted herself up slowly, her arms buckling under her weight, and Mikasa saw a long smear of blood glistening from temple to chin, her cheek opened by a violent brush-burn, and she looked around with her right eye squinted closed. Mikasa focused on Eren, who was propping himself onto his elbow, his uniform a rumpled, blood stained, dirt streaked disaster, and he lifted his fingers to the back of his head, and grimaced as he pulled them back slick and crimson.

Mikasa turned her attention down the street, where Armin was jogging toward them, and then to the construction sign which glimmered bright orange, an arrow pointing in the direction of an alley that reached a dead end. _Armin's plan would have worked_, Mikasa thought, _but Eren acted too quickly_.

_I'm not surprised_, Armin said. Mikasa frowned, and wondered if there were any thoughts that Armin couldn't hear. _But it looks like we're just going to get into more trouble now_.

_Why is she fighting me?_ Eren asked, sounding faint. He looked a little out of it, his eyes unfocused. _Why is she running away? We're friends, aren't we?_

_I don't know, Eren_, Armin said softly. His voice trickled through their heads, bathing them in a warm, milky calm. _You tell me_.

Annie pushed herself shakily to her feet, and her eyes darted to Mikasa's face. Mikasa could see her body curling defensively, her eyes narrowing and her mouth parting. She looked like a wounded animal caught in a trap, and Mikasa knew that she was the predator, and Annie was the prey. Her right cheek was still blood smeared, but less so now. Mikasa noticed, with slight awe, that the blood was crystallizing, glittering in red, icy filaments burrowed into her flesh.

Mikasa took a step forward, and Annie took a step back, her fists rising to eyelevel. Mikasa stood for a moment, assessing her stance, and then she leapt at the girl, her own fist crashing against Annie's arm, and then averting its course rapidly to her cheek. Annie was backhanded, but she did not stumble, and Mikasa blinked as her knee jutted out and caught Mikasa in the stomach.

"Hey!" cried the man whose car Mikasa had dented. "Holy shit, stop—!"

Mikasa used a good portion of her strength to push Annie, and the tiny girl went crashing into the sidewalk, blinking wildly as Mikasa pinned her down by her shoulders, putting pressure on her legs so she wouldn't be able to do any kicking, since Mikasa could tell that the majority of her strength was in her lower muscles.

Annie stared at Mikasa with a glazed, icy stare, before she seemed to snap out of her stupor. She head-butted Mikasa, but Mikasa only winced a little in irritation, while Annie gave a sharp, pained gasp in shock.

"Whoa," Eren said, standing up a little uncertainly, and holding the back of his head as he neared Mikasa. "Way to go."

"Thanks." Mikasa didn't look up as Armin neared them, panting and wheezing a little, his body doubled over as he tried to catch his breath. Mikasa felt guilty as she listened to his gasping, and she wondered if he felt like he was suffocating, the way he was desperately heaving for air. _Armin_, she thought, _give me your tie_.

_What?_ Armin asked. He looked up at Mikasa sharply, his eyes wide and confused. _Why—? Mikasa, we can't tie her up, it's going to look like we're kidnapping her_.

_Well, isn't that what we're doing?_ Mikasa stared at Annie, and Annie stared back.

Armin loosened his tie slowly, and he glanced feebly around him as Mikasa pulled Annie upright, still pinning her legs down, and Armin knelt behind the girl and bound her wrists behind her back.

"I'm sorry," he said to her quietly, glancing between Eren and Mikasa with a confused, inquisitive gaze. "But you were beating my friends up."

"They attacked me," Annie said, her head bowed. Her voice was just as cold and lifeless as the rest of her, and Mikasa realized that she recognized the tone. Dead resignation. Annie wasn't going to fight them anymore. At least, not right now.

"You ran away!" Eren cried, as though it was a reasonable defense. "We just wanted to talk to you, and you ran away!"

"Maybe," Annie said, her voice almost too quiet to hear over the din of construction around them, "I don't want to talk to you."

"Of course you do!" Eren scowled down at her, his eyes narrowed angrily. "Don't fucking lie, Annie, you came to find us. I don't know why you're being so weird, but you sought _us_ out. Not the other way around."

Annie looked up at him, half her face monstrously frozen in a red crosshatch of icicles knitting her skin back together. She did nothing, said nothing, and Mikasa wanted to shove her again. Mikasa noticed then that they were drawing a crowd, and the man from the car was now on the phone, glancing at them suspiciously. _Armin_, Mikasa thought. _We need to get out of here_.

_I can't just make us invisible in front of all these people_, Armin said desperately.

_Yes you can_, Eren said. His head was steaming, and he glanced at the man. _Do it when his back is turned_.

Armin stared at them, his eyes darting between the three of them, and then he looked at the man at the car. There were people beeping, trying to get around him, and then Armin pulled his phone out, glancing at the man as he shook his head. _Untie Annie_, he said as he gave a shaky, disbelieving laugh. "Holy _shit_—!" Armin cried, taking a step away from the three of them. "You guys are crazy, I can't believe you actually kept going in the middle of the road!"

_Armin_, Eren said, one eyebrow quirked. _What—?_

_Play along_, Armin said. _Please, just play along, and untie Annie. We need to get out of this without using out powers. There're too many people_.

Eren and Mikasa glanced at each other, and Mikasa released Annie as Eren tore Armin's tie from her wrists. She looked between the three of them, frowned, and sat up straighter. Armin stepped out onto the road as the man called, "Hey, kid!"

"Um," Armin said, smiling sheepishly. "I bet this looks kinda weird."

"Nah," said the man. He was rather tall with shaggy hair, and scruffy facial hair. "I see kids brawling all the time. What's weird is that that girl stopped my car with her bare hands."

"What?" Armin said, blinking up at the man. He glanced back at Mikasa, and pointed. "Her?"

"Yeah!" The man shook his head, and pointed at Mikasa as well with his phone. "Her!"

"I don't mean to sound rude," Armin said gently, "but I don't think she'd be standing there if you hit her with your car."

"I didn't hit her!" The man shook his head furiously. "She stepped out into the middle of the goddamn road, and then she pulled some pseudo-Twilight shit and dented my hood with her hands!" He gestured to the hood of his car, and Mikasa looked down guiltily at the two distinctly hand-like dents that marred its surface. Armin was going to have trouble explaining it.

"Um…" Armin stared at the man with wide eyes, and he glanced back at Mikasa, Eren, and Annie with a distinctly wary gaze. "Okay…? If you say so."

"No," the man said, his eyes widening. "I'm serious."

Armin nodded, and he smiled tightly. "Yeah, yeah, I… believe you…" He took a step back, and Mikasa could see Eren struggling not to laugh. "Um, well, we're going to go now. I'm sorry about your car."

"Wait a second!" the man cried. "You've got some explaining to do. Like, what the fuck just happened. And you should explain it to the police, too."

"What?" Armin asked, his voice going squeaky. "The police? But we didn't do anything."

"You kids were beating that girl up!" He pointed to Annie, who was sitting lazily on the sidewalk, examining the damage done to her pale blue gloves. She looked up when she realized there was attention on her, and Mikasa saw that her cheek was nearly healed completely. She blinked around, and slumped forward.

"I'm fine," she said, just loud enough for the man to hear, and his face contorted in confusion. Armin looked at Annie, and there was a visible relief in his eyes.

"Yeah," Armin said, his eyes rising to the man's. "Yeah, she wasn't actually being beaten up. It was all pretend."

"_Pretend_?" the man spluttered.

"Yeah," Armin said, his eyes growing wide. "Pretend. You don't think they would have actually beaten her up, right? It was just pretend."

"She was bleeding!" the man shouted.

"Fake blood," Armin lied easily, his voice heightening in disbelief. "We were doing it for a video."

"A video," the man repeated incredulously. "Are you fucking—" He looked at Annie, who stood up and tucked her hair behind her ear, showing off her unscathed cheek. Annie clearly was willing to participate in this ruse if it meant avoiding getting the police involved. "Jesus fucking Christ…"

"Yep," Armin said, smiling wanly. "They did it for the vine."

"The _what_?"

"It's a video app," Eren piped up. Mikasa blinked at him. At this point, she was just impressed that Armin had gotten this far.

The man stood for a moment, and he opened his mouth to respond, but he paused when a car pulled up beside him. Mikasa watched as the window slid down, and she met the narrowed blue eyes of Levi. He watched them for a moment, and then leaned over to shout over the construction noises. "What the fuck are you brats doing?"

Eren was the first one to the car, and he flung the passenger door open, hopping into it. Mikasa was right behind him, hastily rushing past the man and jumping into the back seat, leaving the door open for Armin. The boy stood for a few moments, staring at the man, and then he moved quickly to Annie's side, saying something to her that Mikasa could not hear, and then rushing to the car. Annie followed slowly, shoving her hands into the pocket of her hoodie, and both blonds entered the car without a word.

"Drive," Mikasa said sharply, kicking Levi's seat.

"You don't give me orders, brat," Levi retorted. He glanced at the man outside, who was now shouting at them, and he shifted gears and promptly pulled away from the curb.

They sat in silence for about a minute before Levi glanced behind him, and noticed Annie. His expression remained impassive as he turned his head back in front of him.

"Why do I have an extra child?" he asked, sounding inexplicably miserable, as though he had just been told he had four tumors instead of three.

Annie's eyes were focused on the window, and Mikasa didn't know how to respond. She didn't know why Annie had decided to tag along. Mikasa certainly hadn't wanted her to. But, here they were.

"Congratulations," Mikasa said dully, resting her folded hands in her lap. "It's a girl."

Armin's shoulders jerked as he stifled a laugh. Eren didn't even bother to stifle his, and his smile fell when Levi glared at him. "She's from the institute," Eren said quickly. "Y'know, like the rest of us. 'Cept Hange, I guess, but Hange's Hange, so—"

"Yes, fine." Levi sounded vaguely irritated. "Why is she _here_?"

"Well, we didn't exactly get to interrogate her while we were trying not to get arrested," Eren said, slumping in his seat.

"Excuse me?" Levi met Mikasa's eye in the rearview mirror, and she could see the fury behind his chilly gaze. "What did you do?"

"All we did was get into a little fight," Eren sighed. "And none of us got hurt or nothin', not seriously, anyhow, but it'd be a real pain to explain to the police."

"Yeah," Levi uttered through his teeth. "I bet."

"Why did you run away, Annie?" Armin asked suddenly, turning to look at the girl. She didn't face him. Her shoulders merely lifted, and dropped in a lazy shrug.

"Annie," Levi said. "The ice girl?"

"That's the one," Eren said. He blinked back at Mikasa. "Did you tell him about everyone?"

"Yes," Mikasa said.

Eren twisted in his seat to get a better look at Annie. "Y'know we won't hurt you, right?" Eren asked carefully. He sounded almost gentle, which was a little strange and unnerving.

"Is that why you tackled me into the street?" Annie did not raise her eyes.

"You ran away from us!" Eren couldn't seem to comprehend why Annie would be angry with them. "We just want to talk."

"I told you," Annie said. "I don't want to talk to you."

"Then why did you come to our school?" Armin asked. He sounded so quietly bemused, it was hard not to feel a soft spot of pity for him. Even Annie had to glance at him, her lips pressing together thinly in uncertainty. "Why did you come directly to us, only to run away? What scared you?"

Annie sat quietly for several moments, and nothing could be heard but the soft whooshing of passing cars and the radio thrumming at such a low volume that they couldn't hear it so much as they could feel it vibrating in their bones. Annie raised her head, and she looked at Armin for a moment, her eyes flashing.

"You," she said.

Armin sat, staring at her blankly. Eren peeked out from behind his chair, his eyes wide, and Mikasa blinked ahead of her. Levi gave no reaction, but his eyes did narrow a bit from what Mikasa could see of him.

"Wait," Armin said weakly. "What?"

"I was scared you'd read my mind," Annie said.

"Oh." Armin looked absolutely amazed, and a little horrified. "Well, I can't, if that… if that makes you feel any better."

"It doesn't," Annie said.

"Sorry…"

"Don't feel sorry, Armin," Mikasa said. "You can't help your power."

"Armin's not gonna hurt you, Annie," Eren said, tossing his arms over his seat and resting his chin on his headrest. Annie glanced at him, and she rolled her eyes.

"I'm not worried about that," she said, a hint of condescension in her biting voice. "I just… I don't want him in my head."

"Like I said," Armin said. "I can't read your mind, so it's not really a problem. You've got a giant wall blocking me."

"Which hurts _him_," Mikasa said, throwing Annie a sharp, accusatory look. She looked up, and her mouth parted, as though she was vaguely surprised by this information.

"Wait, really?" Annie asked, glancing at Armin. He looked a little sheepish as he shook his head.

"No, it's fine," he said. "It's not that bad, it's just kind of… heavy. In my head. I don't know how to explain it, but it's not unbearable, or anything."

"Okay…"

"Yo, but if it does get bad," Eren said, looking at Annie with a frown, "can you take the wall down?"

"I…" Annie's eyes widened a little. "I don't know."

"Can't you control it?" Eren cocked his head. "You've had your powers for five years. I mean, we've all got our issues with them, but—"

"I've never tried to take it down," Annie said. "I don't even know how it got there. My powers aren't mental. I don't really know what the wall is, let alone how to get rid of it."

"Eren, sit down," Levi said. "And put your seat belt on, before you go through the fucking windshield."

"I'd survive," Eren snorted. He dropped back into his seat anyway, and buckled his seatbelt.

"That kind of thinking," Levi said, "is going to get you killed one day. You can't survive everything."

"I can survive _almost_ everything," Eren said, raising his chin high. "So fuck it if I get a little banged up."

"Did no one discipline you as a child?" Levi asked, glancing at Eren with a frown. "You should learn a little humility."

Mikasa kicked the back of Levi's chair again, and he threw her a disdainful look in the mirror. "Speaking of discipline," Levi said darkly, "remind me to kick your scrawny ass into next Tuesday."

"Not possible," Mikasa said firmly.

"Brat," Levi spat.

"Bastard," Mikasa retorted.

"Are you two related?" Eren blurted.

"No," Mikasa said quickly, in unison with Levi's, "Bite your goddamn tongue, Jaeger."

"Yeesh," Eren grumbled, slumping in his seat. _Is he always this cranky?_ Eren asked. Mikasa could feel him frowning through their link.

_You're no better, Eren,_ Armin said gently.

_Aw, shuddap_.

Eren ended up turning up the radio and fiddling with the station until something he found satisfactory came on. Mikasa had never heard the song playing before, but Eren was rather passionate about it, and Levi completely ignored Eren from that point on.

"Hey," Levi said. "You. Annie. Got anywhere you need me to drop you?"

Annie turned her attention toward Levi, and she blinked at him vacantly. Then she looked away. No one needed to ask what that meant, and Mikasa heard Levi murmur softly, "Fuck."

"Okay," Eren said. "You're staying with us."

"That's not necessary," Annie said quietly.

"Bullshit," Eren hissed, pulling out his phone. "Lemme just call Hange— they'll say yes, duh, but they'll get all hot and bothered if I don't give 'em a warning." He paused as he was dialing, and he twisted his head back to peer at her. "Sorry I fought you."

"Whatever."

It was a little bizarre, taking Annie home. She didn't speak another word, and she stood awkwardly when Hange greeted her, and she compromised to answer all their questions so long as she could shower first. In that time frame, Eren and Mikasa tried to explain what they knew about Annie, but they found that they didn't… really know all that much. Armin simply sat at the kitchen table, his gloves off as he drew little faces in the gathering condensation on his glass of lemonade.

"Well," Hange said, "it could be that she ended up tracking down Eren, but when she saw Armin, she bailed because she didn't want him reading her mind."

"Which," Erwin added, "is suspicious."

"Not really," Levi said.

Hange and Erwin glanced at Levi, who was leaning against the kitchen sink. He shrugged. "Look, I don't care what any of you think, but having Armin inside your head is not fun. So I can't blame this girl for not wanting him to invade her thoughts."

"I'm really sorry about that," Armin said weakly.

"Save it, lemon head."

"Levi's got a point," Hange said. "No offense to Armin, but his power is incredibly invasive. Annie might have secrets, true, but everyone does. So we definitely shouldn't condemn her for that in particular."

Erwin nodded, and Armin bowed his head in shame. Anger prickled Mikasa's senses, and she felt the need to shout at them that it wasn't Armin's fault. Eren beat her to it.

"Armin can't help it if he reads a mind or not," he snapped. "And, I mean, I like Annie, but whatever mental shield she has hurts Armin. That's a problem."

"No, it's not," Armin sighed. "I'm fine, okay?"

_You don't have to lie_, Mikasa said.

_I'm fine_, Armin said. _I swear, Mikasa_.

"On a different note," Erwin said. "I think we should start considering looking into the facility more."

Armin twisted in his chair to face the tall man, his blue eyes growing wide. "I thought you didn't want to get involved in it?"

"Annie's here because she didn't have anywhere else to go, yes?" Erwin shook his head. "That means that the other children who were with all of you could be on the streets as well. And that's very dangerous."

"For them," Eren said. Or, maybe, corrected. His brow was furrowed, and set heavily over his angry green eyes. "Right?"

Erwin glanced at Eren. Very slowly, he nodded. Eren scowled at him. _Armin_, Eren said. _Your dad is a creep_.

_He's not my dad_, Armin said. _And are we really gonna go there, Eren?_

_He was probably hoping you wouldn't remember Dr. Jaeger, Armin_, Mikasa said.

_Fuck, Mikasa, shut up_.

Armin nearly jumped out of his seat as Annie entered the room, wearing a pair of Armin's pajamas, because Mikasa's were too big for her upon inspection. Levi would have been the closest fit height-wise, but it was clear that his hips were too wide, and his pants would merely slip off Annie. So she wore a pair of flannel pants that pooled around her ankles, and a deep gold hued, long-sleeved shirt that had a curvy black script curling around its arms and chest, which Mikasa was pretty certain was Elvish. Annie was still wearing her pale blue gloves, despite the fact they were a little worn from the skirmish with Eren. Her hair was damp, gathering around her shoulders in dark yellow ribbons.

Hange was the first to speak up.

"Why do you wear gloves?" Hange strode over to Annie, plucking up her arm by her wrist. Annie simply stared up at them blankly. "May I?"

Annie blinked rapidly, and nodded. "Just don't touch me," she warned. There was a very clear caveat in her voice that suggested something terrible, but Mikasa doubted Hange's ability to follow the warning.

Hange tugged the pale blue glove from Annie's left hand, and they made a deep, guttural cooing noise. "Oh, wow," Hange gasped. "Wowie, wow, look at that!"

Annie shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot as Hange examined her hand, which was normal more or less in shape but for the various crystals of ice clinging to the pores of her skin. Her fingers, however, were a discolored monstrosity, black like onyx and gleaming with the same stony quality. It wasn't any surprise that Annie preferred to wear gloves.

"How long have your fingers been like this?" Hange asked.

"Since the procedure," Annie said.

"And do you remember that well?" Hange asked, their hand tightening around Annie's wrist. "The procedure."

Annie stared at Hange for a moment. Her eyes darted to where Eren, Mikasa, and Armin were sitting. And then, quickly, she nodded.

"What about everything else?" Hange asked. "The institution is a bit of a fuzzy spot for our trio over there, but do you remember it well?"

Annie stood frozen, giving no real reaction other than a little frown. She shook her head, and spoke very softly. "No," she said. "Not well. It's all kind of a blur."

"What about after you escaped?" Hange asked.

"What about it?"

"Well," Hange said, handing Annie back her glove. "Where'd you go?"

"I wandered," Annie said slowly. Quietly. She looked away, her shoulders hunching. "A lot. I got put in a few different homes. I ran away a lot. Are these the answers you're looking for?"

It seemed to suffice for Hange, because they didn't ask any more questions. So Eren decided to step up to the plate.

"Why were you at the school, Annie?" he asked with a frown.

Annie closed her eyes. It was as though she had trouble communicating, and though Mikasa could not blame her, it was a little irritating. "I…" she whispered. "I just… I found out that you… that you went there, and I…"

"You…?" Eren blinked at her, and he leaned back. "You… wanted to come talk to me?"

"Yeah…" Annie stared at her feet, and she sighed. "I guess. I didn't have anywhere else to go, so I just… I went in the first direction that seemed okay. Safe."

"Safe," Eren said. "Right. Yeah, definitely. We can keep you safe."

Mikasa glanced at Eren, and she leaned back in her seat. "That's what heroes do," Mikasa said, not able to keep the bitterness from her tone. "Isn't it, Eren?"

He didn't seem to notice. "Yep," he said, nodding. He stood up, and Mikasa stared at her hands in her lap, wondering why it was so difficult to get through to Eren, even when they shared a mindlink. She didn't even understand how she could wonder these things, and Eren still would not catch on. Mikasa watched out of the corner of her eye as Eren walked up to Annie, and offered her his hand. "Personally, I think the only way to use the powers we've been given is to help people. So, let's be heroes."

Annie blinked at Eren, her mouth parting for a moment. And then, she nodded very slowly, and took his hand.

"Yeah," she said in a strained, soft voice. "Heroes…"

* * *

_do it for the vine_

_i wrote this like a month ago and i still can't believe i wrote that part_

_Um, otherwise, I don't think I pulled any confusing shit in this chapter. Or at least it's more or less what it appears to be. _


	6. word for word

_**verbatim **_

**Chicago, Illinois**

_a.d. v Kalendas Octobres, 2766 A.U.C._

"Stardust."

Marco's laughter echoed heavily as he flipped from one roof to another. It bounced across the night, blooming with a certainty, and Jean could hear the incredulity there. Marco landed beside Jean, his knees tucked, and he shook his head furiously.

"No way," Marco gasped. "C'mon, Jean. Ricochet and _Stardust_?"

"I dunno," Jean said, flushing in embarrassment. "I was just thinking 'bout your freckles."

"Yes," Marco said, smiling wanly. "Because criminals are going to hear the name Stardust, and look at my freckles, and quake with fear."

"Okay, well, I'm sorry you're indecisive," Jean said. "Just pick a name, Marco, jeez."

"It's not that easy!" Marco sounded almost sad, and Jean felt a little guilty for pushing him. "Plus, Stardust sounds like something you'd call an alien."

"Stardust is a no, I get it." Jean sighed. "But you've gotta pick something. We can't keep using our real names out in the field. It'll get us into trouble."

"Yes, I'm aware."

In the time between their first outing and now, they'd both gotten better at hopping between buildings— they practiced nearly every night— and they'd gotten a grappling gun, and Marco had decided to strap a wooden baseball bat to his back for this particular night out. All and all, they were doing pretty good, though crime had skyrocketed in the city since Nio and Freiheit's disappearance.

"Hey," Jean said, stepping up to the ledge of the building. It was an apartment complex in the shabbier part of town, and thus there was a lot of noise surrounding them. Distantly thrumming music, shouts and laughter and crashing and screaming. Jean saw the man they'd been tailing come walking down the street. "There he is."

"Huh?" Marco adjusted his hood, and jumped up onto the ledge as well. "Oh, hey."

"How'd you figure out it was him?" Jean asked, glancing at Marco curiously.

Marco smiled sheepishly. "He was on the list of suspects, but I cross-referenced it with a set of phone records I, uh… acquired."

"Stealing from the police?" Jean clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and shook his head. "I'm such a bad influence on you."

"Oh," Marco said softly. "I wouldn't say that…"

"Yeah, you're right." Jean stretched his arms above his head, and let his body balance precariously on the edge of the building, wind fluttering against his exposed lips and neck. Jean had upgraded to a police helmet and goggles they'd found while scrounging yard sales. Marco still wore his hood, though he admitted he could go for some goggles as well, if need be. "If you were really going for the dark side, you'd start smoking."

"One day," Marco said quietly, "you're going to have lung cancer, and you're going to come to me and ask me why I didn't make you quit all those years ago. And do you know what I'm going to say?"

"Uh, fuck you, Jean, you unbearable asshole," Jean offered, patting down his shoulder pads and making sure all of his belongings were secure. He'd lost a good few packs of cigarettes because of his negligence, but thankfully everything seemed to be in place. "I told you to quit eighty years ago, and now look at you, all wrinkly and wheezy, and look at me, fit as a fiddle and running marathons, and shit."

"Ha ha," Marco said, smiling weakly. "No. I'll tell you that no matter the cause, the outcome is the same. I'll be standing over your hospital bed, and maybe you'll have a few grandkids, and they won't even know who I am because we grew apart years and years ago, but you called and I came anyway, because we'll always be best friends, and I owe it to you to be there, and you'll be joking and making a fool of yourself, and I'll just have to smile along and pretend not to be upset, and then I'll tell you that even if you did quit smoking, you'd still end up in that goddamn hospital bed, because you can't fight fate, and you can't fight death."

Jean stood for a moment, stunned by Marco's words. And then he glanced at the freckled boy, and gave a sharp, derisive snort. "Dude, that's way too fucking existential for me, what are you even on right now?"

Marco smiled, and this one was more genuine than the last. "Caffeine," Marco said. "Mostly. I'm running on chocolate too, if you're wondering."

"If that's all you ate all day," Jean said, pushing off the ledge and striding toward the fire escape. "I'm kinda concerned."

"I had sushi earlier," Marco said.

"Ew," Jean said, wrinkling his nose. "Kay, fine then." He lowered himself onto the fire escape, managing to make very little noise, and he began his trek slowly downward. "Shit," Jean said as Marco dropped down behind him. "What's his apartment number?"

"We can ask someone," Marco said.

"It's two in the morning," Jean said. "No one is gonna be remotely helpful, and you know it."

"We'll figure it out," Marco whispered. They came across an open window, and they glanced at each other. Jean nodded, and he slipped into a very small living room. There was no one there, so he crept through the room without making a sound, and he got to the door and quickly unlocked all the various locks, biting his tongue as his heart drummed wildly against his ribcage. As soon as he got the locks, he flung the door open and hurled himself into the hallway.

They stood for a moment after Marco closed the door, and Jean took a deep breath of stale air, of the scent of beer and cigarettes and decay, and he blinked rapidly to calm himself down. Marco put a hand on his back, and Jean glanced at him. He shrugged him off, and rubbed his head irritably. This was definitely a stressful job, and they both had to be very, very careful.

"C'mon," Marco murmured, walking forward. "We'll find the guy faster if we look around. He couldn't have gotten far."

"What's his name again?" Jean whispered, stepping in time beside him.

"Uh…" They moved between doors, looking around the hall curiously, cautiously, blinking and bowing their heads as though hunching would hide them from anyone else lurking in the light. "Crap. Nick, I think."

"Is that his first name?" Jean asked, rolling his eyes. "Or his last?"

"You ask too much of me," Marco whispered, his voice as light as a feather as he gave a small chuckle. "I don't know, Jean."

Jean whacked his shoulder. "No names in the field," he hissed. "Remember?"

"Oh," Marco said, blinking fast. "Right. Yeah. Ricochet, I mean."

"Fuck yeah, you do."

They reached a stairwell, and Marco led them both downward. "Well, that's not really fair though," he whispered. "Because I don't have a moniker yet."

"Well, if you'd fuckin' pick one, then we wouldn't have this problem."

"It's so hard, though," Marco mumbled, tossing his head back to look at Jean. "Do you think I could just check out the SAT verbal words like you did?"

"That's not how I—" Jean cut himself off, scowling at the back of Marco's head as he laughed. "God, you're an ass."

"I disagree," Marco whispered. "I'm also arms. And legs. And a lower and upper abdomen. I'm feet too, and—"

"I'll push you," Jean warned. "I'll push you down the stairs, I swear."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry."

"You're a dick too, though."

"I'm comfortable with that."

Marco dealt with insults remarkably well. Perhaps he was just used to them. Jean wondered what Marco was like before their friendship. Probably not as snarky, for sure, and quieter. Jean was certain that Marco had picked up some personality tics from Jean, whether Marco liked it or not, and vice versa. It was just how friendships worked. They both had a habit of pulling their scarves over their noses in the winter, solely a trait of Mikasa's that had attached itself to them like the plague.

They both froze as two figures appeared on the stairwell. One was small, and sort of measly looking in comparison to his bulky companion. Marco and Jean pressed themselves up against a wall, hoping the darkness would cloak them as the two men came closer. Jean could vaguely hear them speaking, the smaller one in a soft, yet almost regal voice. He was older than his companion by years and years it seemed, because the other man sounded gruff, but young, possibly in his twenties. He certainly looked it.

"It's this way," said the older one. His arm extended slowly, and Jean held his breath. He was so close that he could see the man's arm shaking in the light of the hallway that was just out of Marco and Jean's reach. "Room 7b."

"Well, thank god," said the younger one. "I wanna get out of this hell hole, and fast. It gives me the creeps."

"He left her alone," the older one murmured. "In a place like this…"

"Let's just get her, and get out," the older one said comfortingly. "And leave all this shit behind us. Huh?"

"Yeah…" The older one took a deep breath, and stepped into the hallway, followed by the younger one. Marco and Jean stood for a few moments, before Marco carefully took a step down, and then another, and peeked out into the hall. Jean felt the need to bark at him to step but, but he couldn't breathe, and he didn't dare to. _What do we even do?_ Jean thought numbly. _Where do we go from here?_

He didn't know. He wasn't a strategist. He wasn't even a good hero, he was just a kid with a smoking problem who felt the world's painfully tight grip as it crushed him, and Jean just wanted out. He wanted an existence that was not dictated by the day-to-day life he led. He wanted something different, something fulfilling. He wanted to be a hero, but he had none of the skill or strength, and so he was just wading in a pool far too deep and far too chilly for his tastes.

Perhaps he should just quit while ahead.

"Okay," Marco whispered, stepping out into the hall. Jean all but choked on a gasp, and he felt the need to pull Marco back. "They just entered 7b. See, told you it'd work out."

"Oh my god," Jean hissed, his fear turning to bitterness very fast. "Well, aren't you just psychic."

"Actually," Marco said, turning his face to Jean's. He winked, and Jean scowled at him. "I'm just lucky."

"Yeah, kay," Jean said, shoving Marco forward. "Let's hope you're lucky enough for both of us, huh?"

"Of course," Marco said, carefully moving into the hall. They both fell silent, and Jean swallowed uncertainly, pulling a gun from its holster and cocking back the safety. Marco had pulled his baseball bat from his back, and they moved swiftly without a sound through the dimly lit hall, which was crawling with vermin and festering with dark spots that could possibly be mold, or something else, and Jean held his breath as they reached 7b. Jean held his gun with both hands, and Marco glanced at him. He began to mouth a countdown.

On three, Marco shouldered open the door, and Jean raised his gun and strode into the room, shouting without thought, "Freeze!"

The younger man blinked at Jean, and he flung his head back and laughed. The older one had jumped, flinging his arms up with wide eyes, and Jean noticed, sickened, that he was wearing the black garb of a priest, down to the white collar around his neck. The younger one was burly, and his face, visible now, looked to be chiseled like that of an ancient roman statue, hard and square and defined as though out of marble. He had blond hair, cropped short and thin, and he wore gray hoodie. He clearly wasn't ready for a skirmish, and yet he still laughed.

There was a lamp on a small table that illuminated the room, and in the corner there was a small, shabby mattress with a twisted mass of thin brown blankets tangled about a tiny body. On the mattress, a girl jolted awake, bolting upright in shock, one sleeve of a white nightgown slipping precariously over her bony white shoulder. She looked no older than thirteen, her face round and her eyes innocent, and her hair a twisted mess of flax bundled around her pale shoulders. She blinked groggily in the lamplight, and then squinted through it.

"F-Father Nick?" she stammered, her large blue eyes darting around the room. Jean was disturbed by the scene, and he wasn't sure what he was even doing. He had no plan. He was just praying this all worked out. "What… what's going on? Who…?"

"P-please," Father Nick said, glancing from the girl to Jean. "Put the gun down."

"Seriously," the burly one said, folding his arms across his chest. "You don't know what you're doing."

"And what are _you_ doing?" Jean snapped. "Taking advantage of a little girl?"

The girl shrunk back, and her eyes darted around furiously, as though in search for something. Then her eyes fell on the priest, and they grew wide. No, wide didn't begin to describe the flashing of awe and surprise that took over the girl's face, mild terror gleaming in the reflection of her pale blue eyes.

"Look," the burly one said, holding up his hands. "I think this is all a big misunderstanding. We're all on the same side."

"He's the one who kidnapped her!" Jean jerked his gun at the priest, while Marco stood behind Jean, bat in hand and ready to strike.

"I'm not!" Father Nick gasped, waving his hands furiously. "I'm not Father Nick!"

Jean gave a sharp, scornful laugh. "God, what did you shoot up, pal?"

"No," the girl said, her eyes gleaming with fear. "He's telling the truth. He's _not_ Father Nick."

Jean's arm drooped a little. "Wait," he said slowly, glancing around. "What the fuck?"

"Same at you," the burly one said. "We're here to save Christa. What about you?"

"Same…" Jean said slowly. He didn't think it was right to trust the burly one, and he definitely didn't trust the priest, but the girl, Christa, looked so certain that Jean couldn't help but believe her. She had a sweet, angelic face, the kind that could grace her with any and everything she ever could want.

"T-thank you," Christa said, jumping to her feet. Jean noticed they were bare. "I mean… I didn't want anything bad to happen to Father Nick, but—"

"He wasn't going to hurt you," the priest sad softly. "He just wanted to take you back to your father."

Christa stood for a moment, her large eyes narrowing as her tiny hands drew into fists at her sides. Her white nightgown fluttered at her knees as she strode forward. "That would hurt me," Christa said sharply, her quiet voice ringing in the silence of the room. "That's the worst thing anyone could possibly do to me."

"Well, then," the burly one said with a big smile, clapping his hands together, "it's a good thing we're here!"

Christa paused as she stepped closer to Jean's gun. "You can put that down," she whispered.

"Look," Jean said, raising the gun again and pointing it at the burly one. He gave a long groan of agitation. "I dunno what's going on, but I don't trust these guys. They don't make any sense, and frankly, that's enough for me to want to get you as far away from them as possible. So, let's go."

"Why should she trust you?" the burly one asked, quirking an eyebrow. "You're just as much of a stranger to her as we are."

"Because," Jean said heatedly, "because we're—" He had no real answer to that. What made him and Marco the better choice for Christa, anyway?

"Brawn," Father Nick said suddenly, his eyes flashing wide. "I think I've been in this body too long."

"What?" Brawn took a step forward, his arms extended. "Okay, fuck, you should just let go of him, then."

"I don't know if I can," the priest whispered, tears glimmering in his eyes. "His soul is latching onto mine, and it's… it's fighting me. It's winning."

"Then get out!" Brawn looked angry and terrified all of a sudden, and Jean could feel his hands getting sweaty beneath his gloves. "Go back to your body, damn it!"

"But he's holding _onto_ me, Re— _Brawn_, he's— he's fighting back, and I don't know if I can…"

"Let go!"

The old priest shook so violently that Jean thought the man was having a seizure, his shoulders shuddering as he buckled and fell to his knees, making soft, breathy wheezing sounds, and Jean nearly dropped his gun as the man collapsed on his hands and choked on a myriad of clipped, rapid words flinging from his mouth thoughtlessly. Jean could hear his voice, strained and rasping, and he could hear the fluidity of the language the priest spoke, the archaic heaviness to every punctuated syllable.

"_In nomine Patris, et Filiis, et Spiritus, Sancti_—"

"Oh my god," Brawn groaned, resting his fist in his hip as he massaged his forehead. "You're not possessed, Father! Well, not by anything that'll hurt you, anyway. He's actually a really good guy— better than _you_."

"Wait," Jean said blandly, "what? The fuck?" His eyes flashed from Brawn to the convulsing priest, and he could see all the goddamn horror movies he had ever witnessed as they rushed through his mind in that moment and projected themselves onto the writhing, gargling man on the floor. "What the fuck."

"You wanna put that gun away," Brawn said, looking at Jean expectantly, "and help me tie him up?"

"Tie him—?" Jean's eyes could only widen in shock as the priest collapsed onto his side, clutching his chest and heaving.

"You—" He squeezed his eyes shut, choking on his words. "Oh, God, God, help me, God, help _you_—"

"Quit it," Brawn sighed, nudging the priest with his toe. The man flinched, recoiling from Brawn as though the man carried the plague, and he skittered across the floor, still breathing heavily and looking close to a heart attack. His face was ruddy, blotchy, and the man looked close to tears, though he seemed to gain a bit of composure as he glared up at Brawn. "What happened to my friend?"

"If God is just," the man snapped, his eyes flickering like a match set afire, "then he's in _Hell_."

"Well, he was inside you," Brawn said with a grim smile. "So, pretty close."

Jean almost laughed at that, though he felt a little guilty. The priest was kind of pitiful now. Jean still kinda wanted to punch his face in, though. He glanced at Christa, who was standing near her mattress, hugging her arms, and looking extremely concerned. It was then that Jean realized that Brawn probably was not actually working with Father Nick, but with… whoever the fuck had been possessing him. That was strangely comforting.

"Yo," Jean said, turning his gun upon the priest. The man looked absolutely horrified, and Jean felt a twinge of pity. "Spill it, pops. Why'd you kidnap Christa?"

The man's eyes darted from the gun to Christa's face in the corner. And then the man pulled himself rather shakily upright, and he raised his head high. "You seem like a nice boy," the priest said. Marco gave a soft little chuckle from beside Jean, and Jean was all but ready to shoot _him_ instead. "So hear me. That girl is not who— not _what_ you think she is."

"Um, excuse me?" Jean's hands tightened on the gun. "That sounds like a crock of shit, Father. You don't call people "whats", that's just fucking rude."

"Do you think shooting me will help you?" Father Nick asked, his eyes widening. "Do you think she will?" He raised a trembling finger toward Christa, who took a step back in alarm. "You're a fool. You're all fools. You have no idea what she is, what she's _capable_ of—" A sickening _crack_ reverberated through the room, and the force of it hit Jean, who nearly dropped his gun in the mere shock of it. The meaty smack of wood catching flesh was enough for Jean to suck in a sharp breath and wince in sympathy for the poor old priest, whose head snapped forward upon impact with Marco's baseball bat. He crumpled, crashing onto his side, and Marco stood over him for a moment, bat steady in his grip.

Then, his mouth dropped open, and he dropped the bat with a squeak. "Oh god, oh god," he gasped, clamping his hands over his mouth. Then he slid them up to his eyes and whirled around. "Please, please, please, someone tell me he's not dead!"

"He's not," Christa said suddenly from the corner, her voice a strange but welcome chilliness in the torrid silence.

"Dude…" Jean stared at Marco worriedly, reaching out with his right hand to touch his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah…" He peeked out from beneath his fingers, and nodded quickly, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I just… I just feel really bad, I didn't really mean to do that— I just got really pissed, and…"

"Nah," Jean said, shrugging. "I would have done it if I had a bat instead of a gun, no worries."

"Hey," Brawn said. "So, I'm gonna go. Since, you know, I did what I came here to do. You two are welcome to tagalong."

Marco and Jean glanced at each other. It only took a moment to decide, and Marco scooped up his bat just as Jean holstered his gun. They all stood awkwardly for a few moments, waiting for someone to make the first move, until finally Brawn clapped his hands together and shrugged his mighty shoulders. He looked to Christa, who was now gathering a small pile of clothes, and she hugged it to his chest.

"Well," he said. "Uh, I'm Brawn." He led them out the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he moved. "The guy who was in Father Nick's body, he's called Skinner."

"Skinner?" Christa asked softly. "Like… flaying?"

"Uh," Brawn said, glancing at her with a frown. "No. No, I don't think so. I hope not. That'd be awkward."

"Okay, good," Christa murmured.

"So are you guys vigilantes?" Jean asked, glancing at Brawn's back with bitter suspicion. Marco stepped in time with Jean quietly, and Jean had to wonder if he really felt so guilty about hitting the priest. It wasn't like the guy didn't deserve it anyway.

"I guess you can call us that?" Brawn shrugged. "We just do whatever we can, I guess. There's not much else for people like us."

"People… like…?" Jean could not comprehend that. _People who what?_ Jean thought irritably. _Who have power? Because I'd fuckin' pay big for a super power_. He noticed Christa as the entered the stairwell, the tiny girl who looked up at Brawn sharply, as though she was only seeing him for the first time, and her eyes darted across his face curiously. She said nothing, but her face spoke volumes and volumes in some foreign tongue.

"Yeah," Brawn said, waving offhandedly into the darkness. "Y'know, that Spider-man quote, and stuff. I'm perfectly fine with using my power to help people out. It's not like I've got anything else going for me."

Jean listened to him, and he couldn't help but feel a little awed by the man. He spoke as thought his life revolved around this incredible play of heroics, as though there was nothing else, as though he was stuck in this situation and had no choice in the path her chose. Jean didn't know whether to admire him, or pity him.

"You have a power?" Jean asked, blinking up at Brawn as they continued down the darkened stairwell. Light fluttered through their path every so often, illuminating the man's severe features, but Jean was beginning to doubt that Brawn was so scary after all.

Brawn laughed easily, as though Jean had asked him if he went to school. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Nothing exciting, like Skinner, but yeah. I'm, uh…" He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "I'm actually pretty much impervious. My skin doesn't break. You could throw me into a brick wall, and there'd be a Brawn shaped hole in it." He grinned broadly. "Tried that once. Hurt like a bitch, but damn, it was cool."

"Wow," Jean said, his eyes flickering about Brawn's frame. Jean didn't see why he needed powers to bust up a brick wall, honestly. The guy was built like a professional wrestler and a linebacker had procreated, giving way to the existence of some bearlike crimefighter. He wasn't as tall as Jean had initially thought though, which was interesting. "So, like, if I stabbed you…?"

"Go for it."

Jean nearly stumbled on the last step leading out onto the street, and he stared at Brawn vacantly for a moment as Christa and Marco went ahead. Marco asked the tiny girl something, and she shook her head fast, but he merely frowned, his eyes glimmering worriedly in the gleam of the streetlamp. A car whooshed by, and a cat screeched quite loudly from somewhere across the street. Other than that, there was silence, and it dug into Jean with a set of claws that grazed his skin cautiously initially, and then without warning attached itself to him with a fierce, desperate grip.

"Wait," Jean said slowly, "seriously?"

"Yeah, dude," Brawn said, his eyes widening with a strange, masochistic sort of glee. He rolled up the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt, and jerked his chin at Jean indicatively. "Do it. Don't hold back either. Just jam it like it'll actually go in."

Jean, too curious to resist, pulled his extra blade from its sheath. He recalled the feeling of stabbing the thug way back on that first night a few weeks previous. The instinctual action of ramming glass through the tight-knitted fabric of the man's jeans, through the layers of epidermis and into tough muscle. He hadn't even thought twice about it at the time, never taking a second to regret it, to feel guilt or pity over the violence, and he'd merely kicked the man just to solidify his own chances of getting away.

Maybe Jean just wanted to know how guiltless he truly was. Maybe he couldn't understand why he felt a little empty, stabbing and punching and kicking without a hint of remorse. He had yet to shoot anyone, but he was certain he was well on his way, and Jean realized his list of felonies was only growing— and rapidly.

Jean held the knife loosely between his gloved fingers for a moment. Then his fist tightened around its grip, and he drove the blade against the joint that connected Brawn's forearm and bicep. There was moment of shock as the impact vibrated in Jean's bones, like his arm had gone to sleep and now his nerves were afire with pins and needles, and they were spreading _everywhere_. The blade gave an almost timid screech, soft and swift, and it bent so quickly that Jean had not even realized the damage done until he pulled the knife back shakily, and saw that the blade had been violently disfigured.

Jean raised the knife to his eyelevel, his arm beginning to ache from the blunt impact, and he sort of felt like he'd just knifed a concrete slab. "Jesus fuckin'…" He twirled it momentarily, watching the dented blade spin like a pinwheel.

"Uh…" Marco said gently. "Ricochet? Maybe you should try not stabbing people from now on."

"Shut your fuckin' mouth, Mar— man." Jean tossed the useless knife aside, and glanced at Brawn's arm. It was, miraculously, completely unblemished. And Brawn was smirking with the satisfaction of knowing that his powers were at least amusing.

"Told you," Brawn said. He then paused, and waved to someone across the street. Jean blinked, and followed his gaze. There was a very tall man standing beside a car, leaning against it for support, and looking rather shaky even from the distance. Brawn turned to look at Marco and Jean. "That's Skinner's actual body."

"So," Christa spoke up suddenly, "he's like a bodysnatcher?"

"Uh, basically," Brawn said with a short laugh. He waved them forward as he did a quick check both ways, and jogged across the street. They followed cautiously, Marco and Jean glancing at each other with equally wary gazes. As they neared the man and the car, they found that Skinner was not intimidating at all. In fact, he was a gangly, long faced boy who looked about ready to wipe out on the asphalt. Brawn strode up to him and caught him around the waist, tossing one of his arms over his shoulder. "You okay, buddy?"

"No…" Skinner mumbled, his entire body buckling and collapsing against Brawn. He looked very sickly, his tan face sallow from infirmity. "D-don't ask me to skin another priest anytime soon…"

"Yeah, sorry," Brawn said, looking sheepish. "He was a nasty piece of work, huh?"

Skinner closed his eyes, and said nothing. So Brawn carefully pressed his hand to his forehead, and frowned worriedly. Christa pushed forward suddenly, looking up at Brawn with wide eyes. "Excuse me," she said, raising her head very high in order to look into Brawn's face. "But he needs to rest. Or, maybe go to a hospital. He's very weak, and he could die."

Brawn stared down at her, and then he frowned further. "I'm really not sure what the hell you're talking about," Brawn said. He glanced down at Skinner, and Jean could sense the distress in him just by observing the way his eyes flickered rapidly, searching Skinner's for any sign of life. "Fuck. Okay, I don't have money for a hospital."

"Well," Christa said weakly. "Home, then?"

"We don't have a home." It wasn't said with sadness, or anger, or even loss. It was said with such an offhand breeziness, that Jean had to wonder if Brawn and Skinner had been on the streets their entire lives.

Christa looked up at Brawn with sympathy in her gaze. "Me either," she admitted. She looked up at the sky as Jean and Brawn looked down at her in shock. "Not a place that I can call home, anyway."

Jean could almost hear it. The sound of Marco's heart breaking. _No_, Jean wanted to say, to smack Marco over the side of head and berate him for being such a miserable, idealistic fool. _No fucking way_. But Marco merely smiled dimly in the flickering yellow light that streamed down from the streetlamp. He rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, and stared at Brawn with glassy eyes.

"My mom isn't home," Marco said quietly, his eyelids sliding heavily over the glaze of his eyes. "She's on a trip to Oregon for the week. If you want, you can stay at my house until Skinner feels better."

Brawn stared at Marco, his mouth dropping open, and Christa looked equally surprised. She studied Marco's face, and it was as though she was looking at him for the first time. Her eyebrows rose in awe, and she did not bat an eye as she searched his appearance for some deep, daunting secret, but she couldn't seem to find it.

Brawn looked as though he was about to throw his arms around Marco and squeeze him to death. "Are you serious?" he asked breathlessly.

Marco nodded, and continued to smile gently, as though he was dealing with a small child. "Absolutely," he said firmly. "My house is always open to heroes."

Brawn looked alarmed in an instant, and then a little flustered as he laughed nervously. "Hero?" He glanced away. "Nah. We're not heroes…"

"Sure you are," Marco said, his voice almost forceful as he stared into Brawn's hard blue eyes. "You're a hero whether you like it or not, because you want to help people. You have good intentions, and I think that counts."

"Okay, enough," Jean said. "You are not inviting these strangers into your house, sorry."

"Yes, I am," Marco said, not looking at Jean, not even sparing him a little ferocity. He merely sounded bland, like a robot repeating lines fed to him through a keyboard. And, just like that, Jean realized that Marco wasn't just playing along with a game that Jean had begun. Marco wasn't there to be Jean's sidekick, and he wasn't there to make sure Jean didn't kill himself either. Marco was there, simply, because Marco loved to help people. There were no complexities beyond that. There was just Marco, and his capacity to love, and Jean had to wonder how he had managed to get roped into being friends with someone so excruciatingly kind-hearted.

"Asshole," Jean grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose irritably. "Whatever."

"Who are you guys?" Brawn asked, wide-eyed and awed.

"He's Ricochet," Marco said, glancing at Jean. "And I'm… uh…" Marco frowned. And then, his eyes lit up for a moment, and he kicked up his baseball bat excitedly. Jean could practically taste the idea that had run through Marco's head.

"Don't you fucking dare," Jean warned. Marco, unbelievably, ignored him. "Don't do it. _Don't_—"

Marco twirled his bat in one hand, and grinned goofily. "I'm _Batman_."

"You're not my friend," Jean declared. "I don't know you. Good fucking bye."

But Brawn was roaring with laughter, and even Christa was giggling a bit. Skinner's head lolled, and Jean shook his head in disbelief. _This is so dumb_, Jean thought as they all squeezed into Brawn's car. _Who thought this was a good idea? Why are we trusting these two random guys with superpowers, and why are we just letting them come with us?_

"So where are you from, Christa?" Marco asked, after directing Brawn to where his house was located. Christa had been sitting quietly between him and Jean, her eyes cast down at her hands. She jumped at the question. It was then that Jean noticed that Marco had given her his hoodie, and she was pulling at its too-long sleeves as they pooled over her wrists and gathered around her fists.

"A… lot of places…" She sounded distant. Uncomfortable, perhaps. "I was in Boston when Father Nick caught me, though."

"Boston?" Jean was surprised. Halfway across the country, and she was still rather calm about the entire ordeal.

Christa nodded eagerly, and looked up at him. "I really need to get back," she whispered, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "My friend… she's got to be looking for me… and she doesn't do well on her own, she gets all nervous and angry, and she takes it out on people."

"Really?" Marco asked, tilting his head as he smiled down at Christa. "What's your friend's name?"

"Ymir."

"What?" Marco asked, his smile falling. His eyes widened momentarily, and Jean's eyebrows rose.

"What kind of name is that?" Jean snorted.

"I don't know," Christa said quietly. "It's… just her name."

They arrived at Marco's house a little outside the city limits, and Jean was too exhausted to even care about the threat of strangers any longer. Skinner was laid out on a couch while Marco and Jean blew up an air mattress for Christa. Marco went so far as to bring down his own twin mattress to make them all comfortable, and Jean had almost taken it and hit him with it.

"Gimme," Jean mumbled, reaching greedily for the blanket Marco had dispensed. He used the end of Marco's mattress as a pillow, and fell asleep hugging the blanket, his entire brain shutting down without a blip of sense to any of his actions thus far. He wished he could be okay with that.

* * *

_i finished the fourteenth chapter and i am numb to the world, and you'll understand why when you get to it, but without spoiling any of the bullshit (there's a lot) i shoved into it, i'll warn you that it ended up being around 20k. which is why i haven't updated in a little while. _

_special thanks to angie who gave me a bunch of awesome advice when i was having trouble writing that chapter, like wow, you are the best, thank fucking god i have you, i'd probably die without you._

_as for this chapter, umm? christa. my angel. light of my life. _

_most important thing about this chapter tbh, like everything else is dumb gay men i don't care about them. christa steals the spotlight wherever she goes._

_Okay, you can tell I'm hyped on happiness from finishing the fourteenth chapter. I'm so sorry. Thank you for reading if you got this far, and please review. _


	7. in memory

**Trigger Warning for mentions of physical and sexual abuse**.

* * *

_**in memoriam**_

**Lancaster, Pennsylvania**

_a.d. Kalendas Octobres, 2766 A.U.C._

Levi had never wanted children. He could recall a distant voice asking him about kids, if he wanted them one day, and his simple reply had been that children were messy. He still didn't want kids. He didn't know why he was suddenly responsible for fucking four of them, but he really didn't want them.

Or, perhaps, he was lying all along.

It didn't matter either way. He was stuck in his shitty situation, but at least he wasn't stuck alone. Erwin was in the same boat, though he seemed to be enjoying the ride rather than getting violently seasick. Levi sometimes watched how he dealt with Armin, how the man touched Armin's bare skin without even flinching, and Levi couldn't help but wonder if it had taken years to gain the boy's trust, or if Armin had never recoiled from Erwin, like he never recoiled from Mikasa or Eren.

Either way, it didn't matter much to Levi so long as Armin wasn't touching _him_.

Now, Levi didn't need telling that Armin wasn't a bad kid. He was infinitely better than Mikasa to handle, at least. Armin and Eren at least made their beds. Levi had to wonder how he'd gotten stuck with the stubborn bitch of a child, and he sometimes wished he'd had Eren or even Armin instead— but then Levi would recall with a vicious shudder of recollection that Armin's powers were volatile, and Eren had health issues that Levi would never have been able to pay for, and he realized he was rather lucky, being saddled with Mikasa. And perhaps she wasn't so bad.

Levi didn't particularly _want _to like the kids. He didn't want to become attached to a bunch of teenagers who were kind of awful, in a snappy, rebellious sort of way that Levi just had no patience to deal with. Mikasa had been hard enough on her own, but now Levi had to cart around Eren and Armin and now Annie too, who was an utter mystery to them all because she simply did not emote what she was thinking or feeling. And Levi was no better, not really, but he wasn't a teenager, and he had his reasons.

But they weren't bad kids. That was… that was the fact of it. And Levi, try as he might, could not help but feel an intense obligation to them. He had to curse his fucking heart for being so weak in the face of pitiful children, but he couldn't help thinking back to his own childhood, and wishing someone had taken care of him just a little bit.

"You're very good with them," Erwin said a few days earlier, after Levi had returned from dropping off the kids at school. He'd been leaning his back against the fridge, smiling wanly, and Levi had opted to ignore him. He gathered up the papers Eren had left on the kitchen table, flipping through them to make sure they were nothing the boy actually needed. They looked like they were just things that Hange needed to sign, so Levi straightened them out and set them aside. "You know, it took me years to figure out Armin."

"Lucky you," Levi said dully, grabbing a rag from a ring beside the kitchen sink, and wiping off the crumbs from the table. He was thankful they'd all gotten into the habit of clearing their own plate, though Mikasa had still left hers until Levi yelled at her. "I still don't understand Mikasa."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," Erwin said. "You know exactly how to get her to listen to you, which is impressive, and you know her tastes— what kind of sandwich do you make her everyday?"

Levi paused as he scooped up a glove from beneath a chair, recognizing it as Armin's from its dark color and thick fabric. "Peanut butter and nutella," Levi said. "So what?"

"And she always eats it," Erwin said, his eyes twinkling in that vague, all-knowing way of his. "Correct?"

"Yeah, okay," Levi said, his jaw tightening in irritation. "Fine. I know her. But that doesn't mean I understand her."

"You know all of them," Erwin corrected. "You know what time Eren has to take his insulin every day—"

"It's the same time every day, it's not hard to figure out."

"— And you can tell the difference between Armin's and Annie's gloves—"

"They're different colors," Levi sighed, holding up the navy glove in his fist, "and completely different sizes."

"— You know not to give Annie anything heated, and you know that Armin likes musicals, and you know that Eren won't eat vegetables unless they're cooked, and you know that Mikasa's scarf can only be hand washed and dried, and you know—"

"Holy fuck," Levi said, tossing Armin's glove at the man's chest as he passed him. Levi had caught the boy humming some song that morning, murmuring words under his breath. Levi realized the words were in German from the few that he caught. The song had sounded familiar, like something dredged up from the cold depths of Levi's memory. "I get it. I'm fucking attentive. So are you, apparently."

"Well, yes," Erwin said. "I like to know who I'm living with."

Levi grunted in reply, about to exit the kitchen. They had all agreed search the remains of the facility they had escaped from, but they had also agreed that they didn't think it was safe for the kids to come. So on that Tuesday, Eren, Mikasa, Armin, and Annie would go to school as normal while Freiheit, Augur, and Polymath investigated the reason behind their powers. He'd been planning on doing a bit more looking into about the building itself, which was in Pennsylvania, but Levi paused in the doorway. He turned back to Erwin, his eyes narrowed.

"How much do you know about me?" Levi asked slowly. He was cautious with Erwin, because Erwin was intelligent enough to already know everything he needed to know about Levi. Armin was considerate enough to not pry beyond whatever he had seen the day they had first met, Hange was indifferent enough to not give a flying fuck about where Levi came from, just how useful he was to the cause, and Mikasa had no real motivation to _want_ to know Levi. Erwin, however, was the type to pry into things that were not his business. Levi knew that from experience.

"I know you well enough," Erwin said, never batting an eye. And Levi felt a little cold, a slither of chilly mortification starting down his throat. And then, upon reaching his stomach, the slither turned into a twisting, vicious ache, and for a moment Levi thought he was going to vomit. He knew. That was clear.

Whatever.

"It's funny," Levi said, raising his chin just high enough to make his suspicion clear to the tall man. "Because I don't know shit about you, Erwin."

"Oh, that's not true," Erwin said, his smile flaky on his lips. "You know that I was in the army."

"I know you participated in some war, or another," Levi said. "I know that when they cut open your head, you didn't scream or fight it. I know that you're a pacifist now, and I know that you had to have made the same kind of deal I did to get the power you have. But I don't know why. I don't know a single goddamn thing about you, Erwin, not beyond what I learned at the facility."

"Is that really bothering you?" Erwin looked a little alarmed, and Levi wanted to punch the shock right off his smug fucking face. Yes. _Of course_ it bothered him. Levi's past was the kind of nasty, incriminating story that no one had any right in knowing. "My past isn't anything worth knowing, Levi. I was born and raised in Baltimore, and decided to do military service right out of high school. I didn't have a hard childhood— my father was a teacher at my elementary school. I was moderately popular, I was valedictorian. Is this the sort of information you wanted?" Erwin shook his head, and Levi's fists clenched at his sides. "I'm sorry to disappoint you. But there is no tragedy to my story."

"Liar," Levi said, whirling around. "Nobody sells themselves to a life of being experimented on for no reason."

Erwin said nothing in response. That had been the last conversation they'd had for four days. Levi was endlessly surprised by how much money Hange actually had, because they had their own fucking private jet, and that was just unfair. He decided not to make a rude comment about it, though, because she had given him a rather nice coat modified to suit his wings. So he didn't have to worry about shredding the fabric whenever he decided to fly. Which was nice.

"Are you sure you don't want something a little more…" Hange glanced over his simple attire, a black overcoat, a pair of slacks, and knee-high boots. And his Nio mask, of course. "Hero-y?"

"You mean…" Levi said dully, his eyes cast out the plane window. Erwin was piloting, which was unsurprising, but Levi realized with a great agitation that he was the only one out of the three of them who could not pilot a plane. He didn't need to know how, really, considering he had fucking wings, but still. That would need to be remedied. "Spandex. No. I'm perfectly fine with what I'm wearing."

"It's not actually spandex," Hange said, smiling brightly. "It's a bulletproof polymer—"

"Don't care."

Hange pouted. They were in their own costume, a white lab coat, prescription goggles, and a formfitting black and green suit. They had quite a few different utility pouches, belts that criss-crossed along their chest, around their waist, and right thigh. Hange was certainly prepared for a fight, if it came to one, but frankly Levi was concerned about how they could move with all the weight.

"Were they angry when you took them to school?" Hange asked, tilting their head as though it didn't make a difference to them.

"Yeah," Levi said. "None of them talked at all. But they've got that creepy mindlink, so who knows what they were actually saying to each other."

"You think it's creepy?" Hange gasped, their eyes flashing wide. "But it's so _cool_!"

"Try having Armin inside your head," Levi said icily. "Then tell me how cool you think it is."

"But Armin's cool too," Hange said vacantly. "Like, he's so smart and sweet, Levi, why do you have to be so mean?"

Levi stared at them, and shook his head, turning his attention back to the window. He watched the clouds pass by below, the sun hitting them and making them appear fatter and whiter than they actually were. He wasn't interested in arguing about Armin to Hange, because Levi didn't hate Armin. He was just severely creeped out by the kid, and probably would never opt to be alone in a room with him for very long, but that was mostly out of discomfort. He was a good kid, and his power had its uses.

They landed the plane in a field nearby where the remnants of the facility were. There was a great expanse of flatland as far as Levi could see, and he had vague memories of flying over this very same field five years previous. Only then, it had been very dark, and smoke cloaked. There was a cornfield wavering in the breeze to their left as they made their way to the facility, which looked like nothing more than a large, dilapidated old factory.

_Gross_, Levi thought glumly as they neared the facility. At least they knew that no one was still using the building, considering a chunk of the exterior looked as though it had been bitten off, blackened and charred with ribs of wooden rafters and gleaming metal skeletons peeked out of the slowly decaying walls. Lichen and ivy and even some grains had begun to devour the building's broken carcass. Levi frowned as they neared the massive, yawning opening in the front corner of the crippled structure, entering from the scorched side of an entrance that should never have existed.

Foliage bent underfoot as the entered the dark, spacious room. There were three cracked, dusty computers that had been overrun with nature. There were mice skittering across dirt-encrusted keyboards, and Levi hunched in discomfort. Levi watched Hange release a set of tiny winged robots that fluttered into life and whirred softly before beginning to scan the surface of the room.

"Yes," Hange cooed, "fly, my pretties!"

"You need to be medicated," Levi said dully.

"I am," Hange laughed, though Levi could sense it was forced, glancing back at Levi with a wink. "Proscription Adderall."

"Why is that not surprising."

Hange rolled their eyes, and held up a compactable screen they'd retrieved from one of their many utility belts. "Anyways, these are my babies. Just got 'em out of the prototype stage, so let's see how they work."

"Aren't you a physicist?" Levi asked cautiously, frowning at one of the robots as it flew very close to is face. He pushed it away lightly when it tried to scan him.

"I'm a polymath," Hange said, their voice breathless and teasing. "I'm not limited to physics."

"These aren't the main computers," Erwin said suddenly, pointing to the sad, filthy remains of the tree computers ravaged by the fire that he and Levi had started. "They kept the mainframe downstairs."

"It'd be nice if we had your hacker lady friend, Levi," Hange said, directing her little toys toward a door. "You should ask her to consider heroing."

"She's not interested," Levi said, though he was lying. Petra loved helping with the vigilantism, and would gladly join them as their official hacker if Levi asked. Which was why he wouldn't. She'd been such a phenomenal friend to Levi in the years that he'd known her, and Levi did not want her to end up like Farlan and Isabel. He regretted to this day allowing her to be in his gang years ago, though the worst that had happened to her had been a twisted ankle, and he'd regret letting her fight crime too. He'd rather it if the girl just lived her life happily, normally, and left the past in the past. She was too smart for the world to lose, and too loyal for Levi to lose. Petra Ral was not someone Levi was willing to let become a casualty.

"Huh," Hange said. They stepped forward, ducking under a half-fallen beam, and followed their abominations toward a door. Levi followed them reluctantly. "What exactly are we looking for?"

"Names," Erwin said, his black cloak shielding his face from view. "Of the subjects from this facility, mostly, but also anyone who worked here. Any benefactors."

"Also," Levi said, recalling his own experience in the facility, "where Dr. Jaeger went."

"Eren's father?" Hange sounded very wary, and Levi wondered if they were scared that Grisha Jaeger would come back to claim his long abandoned son. "Oh, right, didn't he do all the procedures?"

"He was a creep," Levi muttered. _How did an angry, righteous kid like Eren come from that son of a bitch?_ Levi thought, glancing around. He could now recognize his surroundings as they entered a hall less touched by the ferocity and vivacity of nature. "A manipulative shitface who experimented on little kids, including his own son."

Hange smiled wanly. "Eren doesn't like talking about him," they said quietly. "He talks about his mom sometimes, though."

"His mother?" Erwin asked curiously. "And what happened to her?"

"He doesn't like to talk about that," Hange said softly. "But I know she died."

"I'm gonna bet," Levi said, glaring around the white halls around him, illuminated by the whirring robots as they scanned the building, "that all the kids in the facility were orphans, or close to it."

"That's probably the case," Erwin said. He sounded distant, and Levi glanced at him. _Fucker_, he thought. _What the fuck is your story?_ Usually Levi wasn't one to pry, but fuck, Erwin was too secretive, and Levi couldn't stand it. "I asked Armin once if he remembered his parents, and he said that he didn't even know if his last name is really Arlelt. As far as he knows, he was raised like a lab rat."

_At least he can't remember any of it,_ Levi thought. He'd give anything to forget his youth. He'd tried everything to forget it, and yet it stuck with him like a brand. A stigma that could not be washed away. It was ingrained in him.

He began to notice, with a sickened jolt, that his surroundings were becoming eerier and eerier as they moved deeper into the facility. In the shadows, the great, yawning shadows that swallowed the entirety of the labyrinthine halls in chilly, twisted silhouettes of old cameras and exposed insulation, there was a familiar image of a dark head peeking out from behind a wall, dark eyes gleaming and dark face obscure, and Levi could see nothing but short, dark hair arranged in two messy pigtails hanging precariously below the ears.

Levi had a brief, desperate desire to flee the facility, flee like he'd fled it five years ago, flee like he'd fled the rest of his past, flee like he was meant to, with his glassy tattooed wings and instinctual sense of self-preservation. Levi sometimes thought that he was just born to fly away from his problems, because it was much easier that way— but that wasn't true. He _chose_ to fly away, just like he _chose_ to escape from the dreariness of his past, like he _chose_ to turn to opium and sleep his way through half his life. He'd been given wings to flee from the world, but he'd been born into the world with the strength to fight it. Fight or flight was not a decision for Levi. His life was one of intersection, in which he had the choice to fly away, but the instinct to fight until the bitter, bloody end.

It wasn't incredibly surprising to him, though he had a feeling of dread that clung to him like cobwebs crawling across his hair, and he felt the need to tear at his head in a sickened daze, because he felt unclean, and impure, and that was a terror that haunted him. He was haunted. It was in his eyes, in his voice, in the vacant stare that watched in bemused anguish as the familiar silhouette met his eye, and then with a clear fury in her movement, whirled out of his sight.

"Wait," Levi croaked. He could hear a boy in his voice, drunk and angry and sick with life. Hange and Erwin turned to face him, but he was already stumbling down the hall in pursuit of a ghost. "Wait— _espera o alto_!" The words felt thick on his tongue, like old liquor, too sweet and too bitter and too much as it slid down his throat. He hadn't spoken Spanish in years and years and years, not since he'd held a tiny teenage girl's body as she struggled for breath, her bloody lips pressing to his chest and choking on pleas, on words he couldn't understand— _cuidate… cuidate, Levi_—. And now he was chasing her ghost, feeling stupid and dazed, as though he'd come to the facility sick the first time, and regained it upon entering the second. He could see her silhouette against the dim, dusty, fire scarred walls, and he pursued her like a madman, his eyes following every flicker of the shadow cast by her miraculous body.

Isabel Magnolia had been seventeen when she'd died. Levi could almost see her face, bright and warm hued, like caramel beginning to burn away in an oven, and he could hear her laugh inside her head, and suddenly Levi could see Farlan too, and it was an ache that would not dissipate. Levi had met Isabel at a job. Upon realizing Isabel's age, Levi flat out refused it. She'd been utterly shocked by the refusal, and he remembered the look on her face— her face, which had barely been fifteen at the time, round and vaguely chubby with hints of her youth gleaming through rouge and mascara. He remembered it all with a sudden clarity, and he felt guilty and sick when he recalled that his refusal had gotten Isabel a black eye. The encounter had not stopped either of them from working, but they were angrier now than ever. After they met Farlan, who was in the same position as them, they had all agreed to abandon sex work and never look back.

Unfortunately, it wasn't so easy— Levi had stayed true, purely because he'd never been able to stomach it in the first place. He'd quit for a few years after his powers had manifested on account of being a hazard to the health of clients, but he'd been driven back by a series of different addictions that needed paying for. He'd been about nineteen upon meeting Isabel. She'd had a difficult time kicking the habit— periodic relapses surfacing every few months, and Levi had to deal with her pimp whenever she came home bruised or bloody. He didn't mind having to protect her— he'd quickly become her "big brother", and that had driven him to a greater purpose, and lifted him out of his haze in order to fulfill her image of an elder brother— but he'd been frustrated to find that she couldn't pull herself out of her rut.

She needed something to root her to a better life. She needed something fulfilling. So, one day, after a particularly nasty night (she'd come home with an eye swollen shut, a split lip, bloody nose, and one pigtail chopped clean off), she'd declared to Levi and Farlan that they were going to be heroes. Levi hadn't really understood it, and thought she just had a concussion, but she'd been serious. And eventually, somehow, they'd just taken to the streets in a form of vigilantism. They didn't really care about thieves or drug dealers— no, their targets were rapists, pimps, and sexual predators of any kind. And Levi had felt… satisfaction in killing them.

Of course, it had all faded fast after Isabel had decided to take down her old pimp herself. Farlan had tried to stop her. And Levi had not been there.

Levi didn't need to lament about what could have been. He knew, of course, Isabel and Farlan would be alive if he'd been with them. But that pain was old, and it was more like a faint scar now, anyway. He'd been helped and helped again through it, and now it wasn't even a dull ache. It was just an itch that he couldn't scratch, a ghost pain in his chest, and yet here he was. Chasing a dead girl.

"Don't you want children, Levi?" Isabel had asked once, lying over the back of the couch precariously. He could almost hear her chewing bubblegum, almost smell it, sickly saccharine and expanding inside his memory blooming and popping, and he heard it, smelt it, felt her stare. Farlan was laughing at her gently, telling her that she had bubblegum on her chin, and Levi just stared and stared and stared ahead of him, his heart thudding hard as he pushed himself off a wall, leaving a fist sized hole in the white, cracked foundation.

Levi hated himself for this. He hated that he was too weak to tell the difference between reality and reverie, but this was no dream, and he could swear that the blur was real. He could hear her panting, cursing in Spanish as she stumbled. _Cuidate, Levi,_ a rasping, trembling voice mumbled in the chilly catacombs of his mind, of his heart, and he felt the word vibrate against his chest, smearing blood across his ribs, a tattoo and a scar. Ghosts and corpses laughed as the girl stumbled, Levi knew this was his chance to catch her. So he picked up his pace, his steps all but denting the floor, and he tackled the girl (who, he realized a little too late, was much too tall to be Isabel) through an open doorway.

She grunted upon impact, and it was too dark in the room to see her face, but Levi knew. He knew how mistaken he'd been. Of _course_ she wasn't Isabel. She didn't sound like Isabel, she didn't smell like Isabel— she was probably just a kid who'd been dared to go into the creepy old building, and Levi had gone and tackled her. That was fucking spectacular.

He felt the girl squirm a little, as though she was surprised that he overpowered her. She exhaled sharply, and snapped, "_Qu__í__tate de mi_."

Levi felt guilty for pinning her so hard to the ground, but hearing her speak Spanish made him sick to his stomach. _Eres horrible… irracional… sin verg__üenzas— pero eres humano… no se te olivide. Creo en ti… creo en lo que puedes hacer_… It felt like she'd punched him in the gut just by uttering her command, as though by having the ability to speak Spanish she had become the ghost of Isabel Magnolia again. But Levi couldn't delude himself. She'd never been Isabel, and he hated himself for being so hung up over the past. He'd learned a long time ago that the only way to go forward was to let go. He needed to keep reminding himself that nothing good could come keeping the dead from peace. Isabel was dead, yes, and wishing she wasn't would do nothing.

"Do you speak English?" Levi asked the girl, unable to keep up the language. It tasted poisoned with alcohol and blood, and he could still smell the intermingling scents as he stumbled upon the bodies of his two best friends.

The girl stopped squirming for a moment. And then she repeated, "_Qu__í__tate de mi_. _Pendejo_."

Levi couldn't help but sigh in irritation. He heard footsteps, and he continued to pin the girl down. "_Lo voy hacer_," Levi said. The words left his mouth, and they sounded bland and tasted just the same. "_No corres_."

She scoffed at that, and Levi cautiously rolled off her, still holding her arms tight enough to hold her in place, but not to hurt her. He could feel her glare, but he couldn't find it in him to care. A light filled the room, and Levi felt the girl go rigid, as though she had not expected more people to appear. Hange's flashlight fell upon Levi's face, illuminating his mask, and the beam illuminated the features of the girl before him. She was slender, long-faced and warm-skinned, with dark, furious eyes and bared teeth. Freckles danced across her cheeks and her nose and her chin and down her neck, dark and plentiful, and Levi saw that the girl was definitely a teenager.

The girl had dark skin, dark hair, and short pigtails, but her resemblance to Isabel ended there. Levi could not believe his own blunder, but it didn't really matter much now. At the very least he'd caught her. And she stared at him, her eyes flickering over his mask with a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and caution. She then tugged rather hard on her arms, and Levi let go of her, watching with a bored expression as she crashed backwards into a table at the center of the room. But as light was spilt onto it, and Levi got a better look at it, he realized it was no table. It was a chamber, a pod— a coffin. The girl froze upon pushing herself to her feet, her fingers locked around the edge of the coffin, and Levi listened as she took a deep breath. Her body loosened up considerably as she put space between herself and Levi.

And then, without warning, she whirled around, her arms extending in front of her, and Levi watched as something spluttered, like a human mouth greedily gasping for air, and suddenly the entire room lit up. The light was blinding and fierce, stretching the entire expanse of the room, which was pristinely kept in comparison to the rest of the facility. The white walls where lined with charts and graphs and pictures, and Levi blinked rapidly, noticing an antique camera among a pile of yellowed books. They were illuminated by the wisps of flame swirling off the girl's dark, skinny arms. The fire was not like any fire Levi had ever seen, but like some kind of controlled art, like the girl was making the fire flutter and jump with every breath, and it hummed and hissed, alive in a way that Levi could not fathom as it licked up and down her arms and along her fists and kissing her knuckles. She opened her palms, and the fire coughed, and laughed, beautiful and deadly as a flame reached outwards ever so slightly and recoiled back to the firm safety of the girl's skin.

"Right," said the girl, raising her chin jauntily, "so who the hell are you lot?"

"So you do speak English," Levi mused, eying her flaming arms apathetically. Levi was strong enough that he could pick up Hange and Erwin and fly them through the roof, if it came to it.

"Well, yeah," said the girl, rolling her eyes. "Your accent is awful, pal. Thought you might wanna know."

Her words hit Levi rather hard. Because though she didn't look as much like Isabel as Levi had initially thought, she acted a little too similarly to the dead girl. And Levi really didn't need any more reminders of the dead. "I know," Levi said numbly. _Isabel said so_.

"Wow," the girl said, her eyes moving between the three of them. "No reaction? Really?" The girl flung her head back and laughed. "My arms are on fire, and all you folks can do is frown at me all stern-like!" She mimicked their expressions, or what she perceived as their expressions, and it was almost a little funny to see her dark, freckled face scrunch up in the flickering firelight, yellow hued and shadowy.

"You were a subject here," Erwin said suddenly.

The girl looked at him quizzically. Her angular face had a strange, fay-like quality to it that made her look inhuman in the writhing glow of her flames. She had the face of a girl who looked painted, as a little crooked and stylistically imperfect, but made to be stared at, and it made Levi very uncomfortable, because she did not look real. She looked creepy.

"Subject?" The girl had an odd accent, cocky and smooth. It was a drawl, and beneath it the sound of her Spanish roots could be faintly detected, but there was something about her tone that made her sound out of place. Old. Her voice was low, but a little too sweet, like something he'd hear out of a fuzzy phonograph. Levi noticed she was wearing a pair of jeans, and a long purple shirt that ruffled at her shoulders, and was loose and layered with chiffon and lace. Levi suspected the shirt was supposed to be a dress, but not for someone the girl's size.

"Yes," Erwin repeated. "Doctors experimented you. To give you that power." Erwin pointed to her fiery arms, and the girl looked down at them and blinked.

"Oh?" She cocked her head, and her pigtails bounced as though they had not been secured properly. "Is that what they did?"

Erwin's face was impossible to read. "Can you remember?" he asked cautiously. It was clear he was treading somewhere very thin, and Levi wanted to hit him. "It's understandable if you don't."

"I wasn't given this." The girl waved her flaming arms, and the fire leapt against the air, whooshing and whispering, growing brighter in intensity and burning Levi's retinas. "I've always been like this."

"Oh," Hange chirped. "Like Freiheit, then?"

The girl stared at Hange blankly, and then turned her eyes to Levi. "Ain't that a superhero?" she asked. She made an odd little face, and she sighed. "Oh. That's it, then. You're superheroes." She sighed loftily. "You really messed with my friend's mind, you know. Ever since she saw people like us starting to fight crime, she went all dotty with the idea."

"Was your friend a subject too?" Hange asked.

The girl shrugged. Her eyes were narrowed. "Yeah," she said. "I guess. That's not the word I'd use, though."

"What word would you use?" Levi asked. He couldn't help his curiosity.

"Um," the girl said with a short snort. "Patient."

"Either works," Erwin said. "If you don't mind us asking, what's your name?"

"Yes, I actually do mind your asking, thank you." She eyed Erwin suspiciously. She still had her arms extended, a precaution, but her body was very loose and carefree. She looked completely comfortable with her surroundings. "_Asquerosos_."

Levi glanced at Erwin, but if he was insulted, he did not show it. He pulled down his hood, and Levi watched him with bemusement as he stepped forward, his hands up in surrender. "I call myself Augur," Erwin said, "but my name is Erwin Smith. I'm a librarian from Baltimore. Who are you?"

The girl looked momentarily stunned, and she took a step away from Erwin, her back pressing up against the open coffin. Levi was reminded of an insect— a butterfly, perhaps, all motley wings that gleamed in the sunlight, beautiful by anyone's perspective but a scavenger nonetheless— trapped in the agony of daylight and frozen in terror of being caught and pulled apart.

"'Tain't your business," said the girl stiffly. "Why are you here, in any case?"

Levi bit his tongue from responding icily, "That isn't your business, either." Instead he just stared sulkily at the girl, whose arms were on fire, and whose eyes were dark and filmy with uncertainty.

"We're investigating," Erwin said. "We were subjects here as well, but at the time we weren't aware that there were children. We're attempting to track down anyone who was too young to consent to experimentation, to help them as best we can. You said a friend of yours was part of the experiment as well?"

The girl's eyes narrowed. And then, her shoulders drooped, and she looked around the room with an idle curiosity, pretending it all interested her. "Well, yeah," said the girl. "You know… I'm actually looking for her." She eyed Erwin with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, as if she suspected suddenly that Erwin could be of use to her. "She disappeared a few weeks ago. I've been wandering around, trying to find her…"

"We can help," Hange chirped. Levi rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but smirk a little as Hange took a step toward the girl, eyes glinting madly in the glow of the flames. "Of course, you'll need to help us too, if you don't mind. We just want to get to the bottom of all this experimentation business, y'know?"

The girl didn't seem to be listening. "Yeah, sure," she said. "But you can find Christa, right?"

"Yes," Erwin said firmly. Levi almost laughed aloud. _Stop making promises you don't know that you can keep_, he thought. "Now, what is your name?"

The girl did not respond. She was looking about the room, her eyes darting suddenly in the firelight. She marched up to one wall, shaking her left arm rapidly until the fire leaking from her pores guttered out. Her right arm was still aflame, but the fire had rolled from her bicep to her forearm in a heated, splashing orange wave, and it kept flowing down to her wrist in a spitting flow of flame, like water flushing from a gutter. It gushed around her fist, hissing wildly as she opened her palm and the fire of her skin flashed excitedly with so much intensity that Levi could feel the heat of the flame from where he stood near the doorway of the odd, tomb-like room.

The light was now a small, revolving sphere of fire wheezing in the girl's cupped hand, floating eerily inches from her skin, connected by a single ribbon of steel blue and white-hot flame. The girl held it above her head as she bent forward, squinting at the data and photographs that were tacked to the eggshell white walls. She reached out, looking a little shaken up, and her fingers pressed against a faded black and white photograph.

"What…?" the girl whispered, tearing a photo from the wall and bringing it to her face. Levi saw writing on the back, an archaic cursive script that was written in long-fading ink. He stepped closer as Erwin began to look around the room as well, and he was able to read the delicately swirling letters. _Me and Ilse, Age 10, Gallows Hill, 1923_. The girl was frowning, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and she continued to stare at the photograph with an expression the flickered between vacant and crippled, her emotions rapidly fluttering like a flame, warm and rapid and constantly changing. Then the girl gave a sharp, pained gasp, and she dropped the photograph and stared at her hand for a moment, anger flickering in her eyes as well as anguish, and Levi caught the small picture before it fluttered to the ground.

He realized quickly why she had gasped. The photograph appeared a once pristinely kept vintage snapshot of two people standing before gray, grassy area, rocks poking out from the ground and shrubbery growing all around them in twisted black limbs that reached toward the sky in an eerie desperation, and simultaneously dropped to the soft, gray grass in unparalleled defeat. There were two people. A girl, slender and boyish by design, her bony shoulders jutting out from the thin straps of her crew-collared dress, which was pale in color and heavily beaded with what looked to be pearls. She had a jaunty look to her, a daunting, fay-like gleam in her black eyes as her bob of black hair curled across her freckled face, wind catching her entire body off guard, tipping her ever so slightly into the shoulder of the second individual. It must have been a lovely photograph, all but a minute ago, before the fire girl had accidentally burned half the photo where the second individual's entire body stuck out into the shot. The only remnant of them was a bony hand resting against the scrawny ten year old's shoulder, lighter hued and grainy. A thumb shaped scorch mark marred the surface of the photograph, but did no damage more than that. She'd dropped it before it could catch fire.

"This girl," Erwin said suddenly, pulling another photo from the wall. Just like the Gallows Hill photograph, this one was of a scrawny freckled girl, though this time she stood unsmiling on the porch of a house overlooking a lake. She was wearing a plainer dress this time, a dark monochromatic frock that hung very loosely to her curveless frame. She was barefoot, her one ankle cocked as though her foot was cramping. She had a glass bottle of coke in her hand, and she studied the camera and the photographer as though they were something nasty that had gotten stuck to the bottom of her foot. "She looks quite a bit like you."

This was true. The girl in the photographs looked remarkably like their fire starter. They had the same slim, impish face, dark tinted skin, myriad of freckles splashed all across her face and neck and shoulders and arms. Ilse. That's what it said beneath the snapshot Erwin had picked up. _Ilse, Age 10, 1923, Great Pond_. The fire girl stood silently, her eyes moving around the room in awe and bemusement.

"Yeah," the girl said, her voice thick. Levi could hear her Spanish accent creeping in. "She does, doesn't she?" She blew her hair out of her eyes, and she straightened up considerably, raising the sphere of fire in her hand high above her as she shrugged. "That's my grandma. Ilse Langner."

Erwin smiled dimly. "Ah," he said. "Was this your room, then?"

The fire starter nodded, though she didn't look entirely certain. Levi noticed that Hange wasn't invested in the photographs at all, but rather in the small coffin— and Levi realized, sickened, that it was too small to fit an adult, so it must have been a child's— which she was all but pouring over, her hands running across its lid and sides.

"Ah!" Hange cried triumphantly, whirling to face the girl. "They froze you to keep your powers in check, right?"

The girl stood for a moment, looking apprehensive. But then, she nodded. "Yeah," she said, shrugging. "It was whenever I couldn't control it, y'know. Don't remember a whole lot of it, which is why… this whole room is skeevy as hell."

"Skeevy," Erwin repeated thoughtfully. The girl bristled, and her lip twitched in irritation.

"_Creepy_," she corrected herself. "_Mierda_…"

"Agreed," Levi said. He pushed up his mask, and she blinked at his face curiously. "This isn't a subject room. It's a shrine."

"What?" the girl said blankly.

"Oh my gosh," Hange gasped, their eyes brightening up. "You're right! This is all pretty typical worship behavior— all the pictures and memorabilia, and what not—" Hange held up a chain, dangling it from their fist, and Levi saw a silver locket gleaming in the firelight. "I'll bet this is yours, right?"

The girl looked at them with indifference. "Yeah," she said. "I lost it when I escaped. It must have broken off from being frozen so many times."

"Uh huh," Hange said, smiling. "Sounds about right. So, what happened to your grandmother?"

"I don't know," the girl said, folding her arms across her chest. "She died before I was born."

"What's your name?" Erwin asked, for the last time, Levi knew, because his voice had lost quite a bit of his genial nature.

The girl exhaled sharply, and her eyes darted around her irritably. "_Mierda_," she repeated with a hiss. "You're persistent. It's not Ilse, pal, sorry to disappoint." She gave a bold smirk, and raised her chin haughtily. "It's Ymir."

"Like the Norse Ymir?" Hange asked eagerly.

"Sure." Ymir rolled her eyes. "Whatever floats your boat."

"Pretty," Erwin said with just enough conviction to make it seem like he truly meant it. Ymir scoffed anyway.

"Uh, yeah," Ymir said. She strode up to Hange and took the locket from her fist. "Okay. So, are you gonna help me find Christa, or what?"

"We will," Erwin said. "I swear to you. But first we need to finish up gathering the data we came here for." He looked around him, and he glanced at Ymir with an odd little smile tugging at his lips. "You don't mind if we take these pictures, do you?"

Ymir had paused just long enough for Levi to know that she had more invested in them than she wanted any of them to know. But she shrugged, and said, "They're not mine. Do what you want."

"Good," Erwin said. He turned to Levi, and nodded curtly. "Freiheit, gather anything from this room you suspect could be valuable to our research. Polymath, come with me. We need to access the main computers."

"You got it," Hange said. They glanced back at Levi and Ymir, and then walked toward the door. "What about Ymir?"

"Yeah," Ymir drawled. "What about me, bossman?"

"You can help Freiheit," Erwin said. Levi began to pluck at pictures on the wall— Ilse. All of them. A sepia photo of Ilse standing knee deep in Great Pond, grinning toothily with a pole resting on her shoulder, and a great bass dangling from the thin filament clutched in her bony, freckled knuckles. _Ilse, Age 10, Great Pond, 1923_. A baby photo of Ilse, not quite freckly yet, but plump and grumpy looking, in a woman's arms. _Ilse and Inc., Age 0, Sina, 1913_. Ilse, just a tiny, chubby toddler, her arms linked around a woman's neck, and her dark mouth buried into her shoulder as her black eyes stared icily at the camera. _Ilse, Age 3, Sina, 1916_. On the back of this one, there was a note written in broken English. _She miss you. Back soon and live_. Levi spotted one of someone else with Ilse, their back turned to the camera, but he noticed it was marked with, _Me and Ilse, Age 6, Sina, 1919_. Before he could get a look at it, he heard Hange's voice utter anxiously, "Hello?"

He whirled around. Hange was on their cell phone, and their face had been drained of color. _Fuck_, Levi thought. He didn't need anyone to tell him who was on the phone. He could figure it out by Hange's face.

"Excuse me?" Hange asked sharply. "What do you mean they didn't show up?"

"Fuck," Levi said aloud this time. Ymir glanced at him, and snorted. He noticed she was standing by the antique books. The pile looked smaller than it had before. And Levi noticed for the first time that she had a backpack. If only because it seemed to have gotten rather fat.

"What do you do?" Ymir asked suddenly. She looked him up and down, and he felt a squeamish discomfort at her gaze.

"Enhanced strength," Levi muttered.

"Sweet."

"I didn't know there was a fire starter here," Levi said, half-listening to Hange ask frantic questions to the secretary of the kids' school. "Guess you didn't play with the other kids much."

Ymir looked at him, and she smiled broadly. "Nah, constant isolation for me," she said cheerily. There was a bite to her tone that Levi caught, and he had to frown. "Christa, too, she never got out much. We never even interacted until she let me out of my cryostasis the night the building kicked it."

Levi nodded. "Someone's been taking care of this room," he said quietly.

"What?"

Levi said nothing. He looked around him, the pristinely kept shrine of Ilse Langner, and her granddaughter's cryochamber at its heart— Levi knew decay. He knew dirt, dust, filth. He knew it, because he'd grown in it. Like a stunted weed, he'd sprawled into life in a Sodom, in a trench, in a dark, windowless room, with whispers and disgust to feed him.

So he could fucking tell when a room in an abandoned, dilapidated building was given caretaking. The room certainly wasn't up to his standards of cleanliness, but it was far too untouched after five years of rot, wild, and char. Not only that, but if Ymir was telling the truth (which Levi doubted, but did not care about), then all the pictures and graphs and possessions of Ilse Langner had been put in place after Ymir's escape.

This was really fucking weird.

"Thank you," Hange was saying in a strained voice. "No, it's fine— don't alert the police, please, I'm sure I can find them— yes, they're so stupid, they probably decided to skip. Thank you for calling me. Yes. Bye." Hange's hand was shaking when they pulled the phone from their ear. They met Levi's eye, and he saw real rage in their expression for possibly the first time ever. "I'm going to kill them."

"Get in line," Levi said dully.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Erwin warned. "They could have taken initiative upon seeing an opportunity to help someone."

"Yeah, okay," Hange said, scowling, "but they need to _tell us _when they do stuff like that!"

"Who is this?" Ymir cocked her head. "What's going on now?"

"Our kids," Erwin informed her. "They're missing."

Levi was struck with an incredible, infuriating revelation. Erwin wasn't surprised. He wasn't even worried.

_You motherfucker_, Levi thought, meeting the man's placid gaze. His thick eyebrows rose, likely at whatever expression— or lack there of— graced Levi's face. _You knew this was going to happen all along._

* * *

_Okay, so the first Levi chapter! I actually only just finished the second, and I'm so glad, because I love writing his chapters. Um, major apologies for the backstory though. I felt uncomfortable writing it, which is why I didn't go into detail with it, like I would if it was literally any other backstory under the sun, but this is the backstory I like using for Levi. And it's probably better that I don't give you any more than a glimpse of it. If you go back and reread what Armin took from Levi's mind in the third chapter, it might make more sense now._

_Also, remember to keep in mind that these characters are unreliable narrators. Also, Ymir! Gosh, her dialogue was weird for me. (It's awkward bc she's an awkward person, geddit) Mmm, what I can say for sure about this chapter is that it was very important plot-wise. The next few chapters are kinda an arc, which this one fits into only by taking place on the same day. Also, don't worry about these three finding the kids. It's not really a matter of finding them as it is the time it'll take. I'm making a note of that because the way I wrote some of the upcoming chapters can be a little weird, and I don't really get to explain the details of what happened to these three between now and then. Because nothing really happened. It's enough of a gap that I feel like I need to state it, though. Anyways, you'll see what I mean, it's weird._

_This story gets weird._


	8. spur of the moment

_**ex tempore**_

**Chicago, Illinois **

_a.d. Kalendas Octobres, 2766 A.U.C._

Jean had learned a few things in the few days he'd been around the trio of actual fucking superheroes, who actually had powers and dark pasts and secrets. One, no one ever wants to be able to jump bodies. It gives you paranoid schizophrenia. A mild case! But still. Schizophrenia. Two, Brawn and Skinner's real names were Reiner Braun and Bertholdt Hoover. Jean had asked as politely as he could if he could just use their monikers, and Marco had kicked him very hard underneath the table. Three, Christa Lenz had healing abilities.

"It's not actually healing," Christa explained early that Tuesday, wearing a long shirt of Marco's that reached to her knees. Jean had spent more time at Marco's house in three days than he'd done in the three years Jean had known him. "It's more like… oh, how do I explain…"

"You heal people," Jean said, offhandedly waving. "That's enough for me." He'd slept over Marco's house for the third night in a row, and his mother was beginning to worry. Jean explained, with a painful amount of detail, that he and Marco were working on an English project revolving around _The Crucible_— Marco had done most of the lying for Jean, who had yet to actually read the play. Marco had apparently read it seven times.

"I actually hate it," he had admitted guiltily. "I hate the portrayals of the people— real people! But I like reading it and laughing at how Abigail Williams is like, five years older than she really was, and having the motivations of a grown woman." Marco smiled wanly. "She was just a little girl who was really scared, Jean. Arthur Miller messed her up."

"You read it seven time," Jean had said. "I can't even read a comic book I _like_ once."

"I hate it in a _loving_ way."

"Also, wasn't that chick responsible for the deaths of like, hundreds of people?" Jean had asked.

"Twenty five," Marco had said quietly. "Or was it twenty six…? And that's questionable, by the way."

Jean had no idea what that meant, but Marco actually had done his research, so Jean trusted him. Anyway, his mother had bought it after some major embellishing on the details of the project, and now Jean was basically living at Marco's house. Bertholdt was more or less back to health, with a little help from Christa, but he'd admitted that he didn't really know exactly what it normal felt like anymore, so he couldn't be sure if he was really okay. Jean couldn't help but pity him.

"Well…" Christa said, tugging Marco's shirt over her legs until it stretched and covered her feet as she pulled them up. She sat on a stool at Marco's kitchen table while Reiner shoveled down whatever breakfast Marco had made, which did not include any meat. Because Reiner was a vegetarian, apparently. Jean didn't eat breakfast, so he wasn't really interested. "Okay, then…"

"We've still gotta figure out how to get you home," Jean said, frowning at the tiny blonde girl. "Sucks none of us have money."

"Ymir will find me," Christa said with a soft smile. "I'm sure of it."

Jean stared at her blankly. "Good luck with that," he said as gently as he could. Christa's smile tightened, and she looked away. Jean felt immensely guilty, but he didn't know how to apologize.

"Morning, Bertholdt," Marco called from the stove. Jean blinked, realizing the tall boy had walked in without Jean even noticing. "I'm making you an egg. Is that okay?"

Bertholdt flushed, and his eyes darted around nervously. "Oh," he said. "You didn't need to—"

"You need to eat," Marco said. "And as my guest, I get to feed all of you. Except Jean. Jean's not a guest."

Christa glanced at him questioningly, and Jean barked a laugh. "Yeah, I'm more like a permanent roommate," he said. "'Cept usually he's crashing at my house. I've literally never been in this house for this long, it's sorta creeping me out."

"It's a little empty," Marco admitted. "I wish I could say it wasn't, but…" He smiled sadly, and flicked off the stove, bringing a plate over to the table. Bertholdt sat down reluctantly, and murmured a thank you.

Jean didn't ask about Marco's dad. Jean didn't even know if Marco had a dad. He knew Lizzie— Elizabeth Bodt, Marco's more or less absent mother— and that was it. It was sad, but aside from paying for his basic needs, Marco was basically parentless. And Marco didn't seem to mind. Apparently he felt like Jean's home was enough, or something.

Weird.

"That's why he avoids it like the plague," Jean explained. "Because he hates his mother, and plans on running away to join the circus."

"Not a bad idea," Marco admitted. "I totally could."

"We could do the trapeze." Jean grinned. "Fuck knows we trust each other enough."

"Yeah," Reiner said suddenly. "Don't you guys like jump off buildings together?"

"Yep," Jean said, a rush of pride flooding through him. "No powers for us. Just years and years of gymnastics paying off."

"And luck," Marco added.

"Yeah, Marco's all about luck," Jean said, rolling his eyes. "Doesn't want to admit a thing about, y'know, _talent._"

Marco hummed idly as he checked his phone. "Talent?" He sounded lofty. "No, Jean, trust me. We're only here because luck. And fate, maybe." He didn't look up from his phone. "But you don't believe in any of that."

"I believe that there's some weird shit in this world," Jean said. "But sure, call it what you want."

"I believe in fate," Christa said, staring at Jean with her large, innocent blue eyes. Sometime Jean was a little put off by Christa. He felt like she was… always watching. His thoughts kept going back to Father Nick. _Maybe_, Jean thought jokingly, _she's God_. And then he realized, the more he adjusted to her presence, that it wasn't much of a joking thought anymore. Christa was a good-hearted, bright-eyed girl. But she had this intense ambience that clung to her, and it was choking. "In Greek mythology there are three Fates, you know. They cut your string of life."

"Like _Hercules_?" Jean asked, glancing at the clock. If they were actually going to school today, they probably should get going.

"Heracles, in Greek mythology," Christa said, rocking idly back and forth. "I… don't think he ever encountered the Fates, but I could be wrong."

"No," Jean said, staring blankly at the girl. "I meant, the movie. You know. Disney?"

Christa stared at him blankly. As did Reiner and Bertholdt. Jean felt suddenly very silly, knowing Disney movies and comic books, when these people— these heroes, were utterly clueless to his words.

"Sorry, dude," Reiner said. "We were raised in a lab."

"Christa," Bertholdt said quietly. "I… I don't think I remember you. From the institute, I mean."

Christa hugged her knees. Her hair slipped from her shoulders as she shrugged. "I… was…" She looked very distant suddenly. "I… I remember… waking up…" Her eyes grew wide. "Nothing before that, though. I mean, I just remember waking up suddenly, and everything was exploding. I can't remember the institute at all."

"You're not missing much," Reiner said. His voice was gentle though, as though he was trying to make her feel better about something no one could control.

"You remember your father though," Jean said. Christa went rigid, and nodded slowly.

"My memories _before_ the institute are fine," Christa said. "I just feel like… like I was put to sleep for a few years, and I woke up in a strange place."

"What did your father do?" Jean couldn't help his curiosity. "You seem to hate him a lot."

Christa closed her eyes. "He put me to sleep," she murmured. Jean stared at her in shock, wondering if he'd heard her right. Reiner and Bertholdt were watching her with equally stunned, confused stares.

"Guys!" Marco cried. He'd looked up from his phone, and quickly turned on the television. They all stared at Marco expectantly, but Jean was still a little hung up on Christa's comment. The TV flickered on, and Jean watched Marco flick through the channels until the news appeared on screen. And what they saw made Jean almost fall over. And laugh. Out of shock, and hysterics. What the fuck, though?

"Is that a fucking robot?" Jean asked, his voice going very high with distress.

"There's another one!" Reiner shouted, jumping to his feet and pointing at the screen. And indeed, there was. The robots were not like anything Jean had ever seen— they were almost animalistic in design, but they moved with a stunning, dangerous precision in their steps. The news camera zoomed in on the creature's gleaming face, and its glassy eyes moved to meet it. It opened its mouth— its giant, gaping maw— and _fire_ poured from glistening metal teeth. "What the fuck…?"

"What…" Christa had jumped to her feet as well. "What do we do?"

"I…" Jean didn't know. He saw the beasts in proportion to the Chicago skyscrapers. They were huge. "Shit, I don't know…"

"We have to do _something_!" Christa cried, whirling to face Jean. Her face was suddenly not so serene and angelic, but more furious in an alarming sort of way. "Aren't we heroes?"

"We're not strong enough to fight those things," Jean said, his eyes flickering to the TV screen. The fire robot had taken out a camera, and now the news station had to film from a sky view. "At least, I'm not. You're not. Marco's not. Bertholdt's powers won't work on robots. And Reiner—"

"Can take 'em," Reiner said. He spun away from them, and thrust his fist into the air. "Let's thrash 'em up!"

"Sit the fuck down," Jean snapped. "You're not thrashing anything by yourself."

"Then put on your big boy pants," Reiner said, half twisting to face them all, "and help me fight some giant robots."

"Giant robots," Jean said. "Giant fucking robots. You expect four powerless teenagers to take down two—"

"There's three now!" Marco cried.

"_THREE_," Jean shouted, his voice echoing in the vacancy of the kitchen, "GIANT FUCKING ROBOTS!"

"Oh, whoa," Reiner said softly. "Dude, lower your voice. I can take them, I'm impervious."

"That means jack shit, Reiner," Jean said. "You're not immortal. Have you ever fought giant fucking robots before?"

"Nah," Reiner said. "But they can't hurt me. And I'm strong enough to tear them up. Don't worry."

"No, you don't seem to get it," Jean said, breathless and furious. "You cannot possibly beat three robots on your own. Unless you're hiding, like, a Jaeger under your belt."

Reiner stared at Jean blankly. "Uh…" He tilted his head. "Eren…?"

"Is that a person?" Jean stared vacantly back at Reiner. "I'm going to assume that's a person. No, I'm talking about Pacific Rim, Reiner, didn't you go to the movies at all this summer?"

"I'm dirt poor, bucko."

"Oh, oh!" Christa's arm shot into the air suddenly. "I saw it! It was so pretty."

"Agreed," Marco said, his eyes on the television. Bertholdt just sat quietly.

"See, even these losers saw it," Jean said. "The point is, unless you somehow have a giant fuckin' robot hidden somewhere— maybe that scrapheap of a car is a Transformer, who knows— _don't fight giant fucking robots_!"

"Are we just going to call them giant fucking robots?" Reiner asked. "Because, I mean, I'm down with it, but can we just shorten it to GFR?"

"You don't take anything seriously, do you?" Jean asked flatly. He felt like he was wasting his breath, screaming at Reiner. The boy was stubborn shit, and there was nothing Jean could really do but slow him down.

"Untrue," Reiner said, smiling wanly. "I'm serious about this. If you don't want to come, that's fine. You're right, Jean, it'll just get everyone hurt." He threw his arms out, and grinned broadly. "I can't get hurt, though. I'm built too solid."

"You don't know that for sure," Jean tried, and failed. Reiner merely shrugged, and began to walk toward the door. "At least wear a mask or something, jeez!"

"Why?" Reiner called back. "It's not like I exist, or anything."

_What the fuck does that mean?_ Jean thought, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Jean yelped when Bertholdt moved past him, following Reiner to the door.

"Bert," Jean said. Bertholdt looked back at him, and he smiled weakly. "No way. You'll… you'll get killed. For sure."

"Someone's got to do something…" Bertholdt whispered, looking distant and glassy eyed. Reiner had told Jean that his Schizophrenia was mild, and so under control that it was hard to tell he had it. But there were signs. Reiner had also said that Bertholdt's case was mostly auditory. He heard the whispering voices of all the people he'd skinned— a pretty gruesome term both Reiner and Bertholdt used for possession— and it only ever really got bad after he skinned a new person. Which, Bertholdt had on Saturday. _I wonder what he hears_, Jean thought.

"Can you skin something that isn't alive?" Jean asked, grabbing Bertholdt by the wrist before he could walk away. He looked at Jean guiltily.

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe…"

"Maybe?" Jean shook his head furiously. "No. This isn't a thug, or a thief, Bert, this an actual monster, and someone—" _Someone created it. A human being decided to play super villain._ _This is a direct result of our actions, mine and Marco's and Mikasa's and Levi's and Bertholdt and Reiner and even Christa. We fed fuel to a monster, and now it's spitting fire all over my goddamn city_.

"Someone…?" Bertholdt stared at him with wide eyes.

"N-nothing," Jean said, shaking his head. "Never mind. Just… fuck, man…"

"Wait," Christa said. Jean looked at her. _Absolutely not_, he thought. "Reiner! Wait!" At the door, Reiner had paused. He'd been waiting for Bertholdt anyway. "I'm coming too, okay? Just let me change."

"Christa," Jean said. He was done with pleading. Now he was just trying to convince someone that this was a bad idea. "You are four-foot-nine-inches and ninety-some pounds of smiles and bones. You don't have a power that can help you. What the fuck are you planning to do?"

"Fight!" Christa cried. Jean was alarmed when she reached forward and grabbed both his hands. "And you should too! Aren't you a hero?"

"I'm a high school student," Jean said quietly. "I'm not a hero, I'm a kid. And so are you. Jesus…" He tore his hands away from her in order to rub his forehead in contemplation. "We're not in any shape to be fighting monsters. We're not powerful enough to even entertain the thought."

"Then who _is_?" It was Marco who spoke. Jean looked at the freckled boy, sickened suddenly by the idea that Marco was willing to join the crusade. He was standing by the television, his warm brown eyes tired and dull, aged suddenly as though shriveled in the sun like grapes to raisins. He stood and stared. At Jean. Only at Jean. There was a serious, calculating look about him that made it clear that he had thought about this extensively— Marco knew the answer. He wanted to know if Jean knew. And that made the pressure of the situation all the more terrifying.

"What do you mean?" Jean asked.

"If we're not powerful enough," Marco said, his voice strong and steady, "then what about the people weaker than us? There's no one protecting us, Jean, so who's protecting _them_? We _have_ to be strong enough."

"I don't understand what you're talking about, to be honest," Jean sighed. Christa had disappeared from the kitchen, likely to change, and Bertholdt had moved to Reiner's side at the front door. "Are we in any danger here?"

"Jean," Marco said gently. "Giant fucking robots."

"GFR!" Reiner called from the door.

"Shut the fuck up!" Jean called back. He turned back to face Marco, who had taken a few strides to meet Jean, his sun-dried eyes suddenly glowing with the intensity of determination. Jean almost took a step back from the shock of it. He'd never seen Marco look like this before, so like— like a stranger who had taken over his friend, his best friend who cared for everyone and was so… determined…

Oh.

It occurred to Jean that perhaps he didn't know Marco at all. Perhaps he'd been pretending for years and years that he knew Marco, because maybe he knew some part of him, some tiny part that doted on Jean and made Jean feel like he was worth something whenever he felt like he was nothing, but it wasn't who Marco was. Not truly. Jean could pretend that Marco was the perfect friend, the perfect follower, the ideal person that Jean needed around him. But Marco was just as human as Jean was. Marco was breathing, and Marco was having thoughts, and making his own decisions, and planning to follow through with his life with or without Jean in the equation. And it _hurt_, not because it was happening now, per se, but because it was inevitable. This was life. Marco knew it. Jean knew it. And it was possible that fate did exist, if only to tear friends apart.

_Why are there three Fates in Greek mythology?_ Jean wondered, searching Marco's face desperately. He could see every freckle, every pore, and it was almost… too clear, as though Jean had been living half his life staring at Marco through a faulty lens. _It only takes one person to cut one string. So why three? Are there other strings? Life string, mind string, heart string. You lose your heart first. And once that's cut, there's no helping you. It's the end. You lose everyone you love fast, and you're stuck with the ashes of all the fuckin' failed relationships you've had. Then you lose your mind. You're friendless. Hopeless. Heartless. You already wish you were dead. And you cave. That's when your life gets cut. And it's a mercy_.

Marco took Jean's hands, and stared at him worriedly as though he could hear exactly what he was thinking. "You're the one who wanted to be a hero, Jean," Marco whispered. "So why don't you just prove that you are?"

_I'm scared_, Jean wished he could say. _I don't want to die_. It had never stopped him before, but now was so different. Now it felt real, not just some senseless dream used to escape from the real world. Fighting crime at night, in the dark, it was a secret. No one knew there were vigilantes going around, at least no one with the power to stop it. But to go out and fight giant robots— GFR, as Reiner would prefer— with little chance of success? Jean couldn't even break into his own computer when he forgot his password. Marco had to do it. Hell, Marco had known his password. There was no chance for him to be of help in this situation.

"I'm not a hero, Marco," Jean said, his voice unsteady.

"Yeah, you are," Marco said firmly. He wasn't smiling. His gaze had grown dim and tired again. "But I need you to stop pretending your not… just because you're weak. That doesn't make much of a difference, in my opinion. Because that's what makes you different." He let go of Jean's hands, and Jean had almost forgot he'd been holding them. "Maybe that's the kind of hero people need. The normal kind. A human. That's what you are. So…" Marco smiled suddenly, and shoved Jean gently. "Just be human. But don't die. Kay?"

"Um…" Jean didn't know what to say. Except, perhaps, remind Marco that they had a Spanish test in half an hour. "Okay… I don't really…"

"Trust me," Marco said.

"I do," Jean sighed. "You know I do, come on."

"Then let's kick some robot ass." Marco offered Jean his hand, and Jean couldn't help but accept it.

* * *

_It's really weird going back to these chapters, because a lot happens and yet...? Not much happens at all. I'm really surprised how this keeps turning out because I just finished another Jean chapter, and the last chapter I wrote was a Levi chapter. That was a total accident! _

_Christa's powers aren't easy to explain. At the moment. Eventually they'll be seen in action, but until then, let's just say she's a healer. _

_Aside from that, I have no comments on this chapter? Except that I really didn't want to do giant robots. But I needed something really extreme to pull everyone together. Extreme and ridiculous. I wanted it to be ridiculous and silly, because it's still a superhero au. And what would superheroes be without giant robots?_


	9. method of working

_**modus operandi**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. Kalendas Octobres, 2766 A.U.C._

Eren had been pretty much prepared to face school with his usual speak-a-word-and-die attitude. That morning, as he'd been trying to find an oxford shirt that was pink (because it was now October, and they got to where pastel pink shirts with their uniforms now, how fucking exciting), Mikasa had appeared in his doorway. He glanced at her, completely dressed, and he threw the shirt in his hands at her face. It landing on over her head, white and rippling across her nose and mouth. She tugged it off, and stared at him. Her phone was clutched in her fist.

"What do you want?" Eren asked, digging through his drawers, his anger spiking to the point where he almost tore the drawer out and tossed its contents onto the floor. But he'd rather not get a beatdown from Levi.

"I…" Mikasa sounded very distant. She looked almost uncomfortable, her eyes darting very fast from him to the hallway. He felt guilty for that. "What are youdoing?"

"Um," Eren said, tearing a pale coral button down shirt from his drawer. He cried out triumphantly. "Finding a fuckin' shirt! Well, that's it, god bless America, I can convert, god is real—" He glanced at Mikasa, who was still standing frozen in the doorway, staring at him with large eyes. _She probably thinks I went crazy in five years_, Eren thought. _Though, I probably did, so can't blame her for that_. "Are you okay? Do you wanna… like, talk… or…?"

"Um," Mikasa said, blinking rapidly. She pulled her red woolen scarf— his own from years and years ago— up over her lips a she shook her head profusely. "No. No talk— uh, ing." Her voice was muffled by the wool, and he couldn't help but smile. "I just got a text from my friend Marco."

"Oh, right." Eren pulled on the shirt, frowning at its tightness around his shoulders. Maybe they'd gotten broader? He hadn't even noticed, holy fuck. Weird. "From Chicago. Wasn't there another one?"

"Jean," Mikasa said, pulling her scarf down a little when Eren began to button up the shirt. "Yes. Anyway, Chicago's being attacked by giant robots."

Eren paused mid-button. He looked up at her. "Repeat that last bit," he said. "Slowly. Like, go for a Samuel L. Jackson impression."

Mikasa stared at him, her eyes darting fast from and to his face in mild confusion. "I'd like to talk to you about the Avenger's initiative," Mikasa said instead in a dead monotone. Eren stared back at her for a moment, and then burst into laughter.

"Close," Eren said. "But Sam Jackson's voice ain't that high."

"Eren," Mikasa said very slowly. "Chicago. Giant robots. Is any of this digesting…?"

"Do you want me to go tell Hange?" Eren's stomach fluttered giddily at the thought of missing school to fight giant robots. _I'd have to go full Rogue though_, Eren thought. Somehow he didn't mind.

Mikasa shook her head. "They're investigating the institute today," Mikasa said quietly. She averted her gaze, and Eren stared at her. _Tell me what's wrong_, Eren said through their mindlink. Armin, who obviously heard, said nothing in response. _Did this Marco guy hurt you? I can_—

"You're not beating up anyone who's not a giant robot," Mikasa informed him. "And no. He didn't. I'm just… worried, that's all. I don't know what they're going to find."

Eren knew that feeling. Because his father was still out there somewhere. And that terrified and excited him. There was something in the enigmatic disappearance of Eren's father that troubled Eren, in the most delightful and daunting way. Because Eren knew that his father was responsible for… for a lot of things that Eren didn't understand. And he hoped that maybe meeting him again would clear up the mysteries. Maybe there was a _reason_ they'd all been given these powers.

"Yeah," Eren said quietly. "I get it… so, wait." He scratched the back of his neck, grimacing at the sensitive skin— too fleshy and too soft and too easily torn— and studying Mikasa's face. Mikasa didn't wear make up, which didn't surprise Eren, but he noticed that she'd clipped her hair back from her eyes with a pair of twin red bobbypins. "What exactly do you wanna do, then?"

Mikasa shot a glance out into the hall, and then she stepped into Eren's room, shutting the door behind her. She stood for a moment, her body hunched awkwardly, as though she didn't know exactly how to stand or relax inside Eren's bedroom. Eren wondered what was making her so nervous— the robots, the institute, or the fact that she was alone in his bedroom. _But that's dumb, because she knows me, and she's always alone with Levi, and she can beat me up easy, so she shouldn't be scared_, Eren thought to himself.

"How many planes does Hange have?" Mikasa asked urgently.

"Three," Eren answered immediately. He knew this because they'd taken him to JFK— where she kept them, interestingly enough— and pointed them out to him. "They've got the jet, and then two smaller planes." He was grinning now, and he whirled around, kicking closed his drawer and dragging his duffle bag containing his Rogue costume out from under his bed. "The fastest one is one that Hange designed themself— it's all flashy and bright colored, but it's pretty damn efficient in a pinch."

"Can you fly it?" Mikasa asked, hugging her arms as she looked around Eren's room. He had a few trophies from baseball, and soccer, and a medal for excellence in Biology from like, eighth grade, and Hange had been so pleased with it they'd framed it on his wall. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten the award, because he wasn't really good at science anymore.

"Um," Eren said with a sharp laugh, "no? I mean, Hange never let me learn how because of, y'know, the narcolepsy thing."

Mikasa frowned. Eren could sense that that irritated her, and it sort of irritated Eren too, but it wasn't something he could fight. It would be _dangerous_ to have him in a cockpit. Like, not in the fun thrill-seeking way, either. In the way that would undoubtedly kill all his friends. So, he was a little thankful that he couldn't actually pilot anything.

_Armin_, Mikasa called into the void that held the tethers of their linked minds.

Armin answered with vague confusion. _Yeah?_

_Can you fly a plane? _Mikasa asked, and Eren raised his eyebrows. He could practically feel Armin's shock from wherever he actually was in the apartment, and it shuddered through the mindlink like the recoil of a gun.

_What?_ Armin's voice was sharp and startled. _Mikasa, I can't even ride a bike_.

Mikasa exhaled sharply, her nostrils flaring as she glared up at the ceiling. She stood rigidly for a moment, and Eren began to transfer his Rogue gear from his duffle bag to his backpack. _Ask Annie_, Mikasa said begrudgingly.

Eren knelt beside his backpack, and he looked up suddenly. "Hey, Mikasa," Eren said. "Do you know how to ride a bike?"

"No."

Eren stared ahead of him for a moment. Their lives were fucking sad. "Me neither," he admitted. He tucked his shirt into his belt, and snatched his tie from his bed. "Why would Annie know how to fly a plane, anyhow?"

"I don't know," Mikasa sighed. "We don't know much about her. Maybe she can."

There was a soft knock at the door. Mikasa opened it slowly, and Armin poked his head in. "Uh," he said. "Hey. So, why do we need a pilot, exactly?"

"We have to get to Chicago," Eren said, tying up his tie. "Though, I don't know how we're gonna even get past Levi, honestly."

Armin stepped into the room, completely dressed in his uniform, gloves and sweater on, and he stared at them curiously from behind his wire-framed glasses. Last week, Armin had failed his eye test. It had been the most satisfying moment of Eren's life thus far to find that he had passed a test that Armin had failed. Armin had merely stared at Eren glumly as he handed the pale yellow slip to Erwin that indicated Armin's need for ocular correction.

Annie entered the room after Armin. She had her own clothes now, and modified the school uniform to suit her comfort. Her skirt was much shorter than Mikasa's (which was, admittedly, far longer than many of the other girls wore), but she wore a pair of visible knee length leggings. She'd gotten in trouble for it her first day, but after she had managed to get a doctor's excuse saying she had a skin condition, she was allowed to wear them. She wore her scuffed pair of sneakers with her white knee-highs, and her heavy white sweatshirt over her school sweater.

"I can take us," she said, her hands stuck in the pocket of her sweatshirt. She glanced at Armin, who was watching her curiously. She shrugged. "I stole a plane once."

"That's fuckin' metal," Eren said, impressed by the tiny blonde. She blinked at him, but said nothing in response.

"Can I ask… why?" Armin said, studying Annie intently.

"It's safer than hitch-hiking," she said. "Once you figure out the controls, at least."

"So you did your homework, then," Armin said. "Before you stole it?"

"Well I didn't crash it," Annie said, sounding bristled. "I left it where I landed. I didn't plan on keeping it, and I'm sure it was returned to the owner."

"Okay, cool," Eren said, nodding at Annie. "So you can take us to Chicago. Who's prepared to beat up some robots?"

They all stared at him blankly. Mikasa raised her hand, and Eren grinned, high fiving her happily. Armin and Annie merely looked uncomfortable. _It's like they don't even want to be heroes_, Eren thought. But Armin and Annie just stared, four pairs of dull blue eyes watching Eren uncertainly, and Eren felt a memory surface from the depths of the crypts that held his past, of these two small friends of his standing across from him with the same dead, bemused look in their eyes. Only they were even smaller then, even more uncertain, and even more distant and dull and dead to the world.

"Why would anyone attack Chicago with robots?" Armin asked suddenly.

Eren glanced at him. "Does that… matter?"

"Of course it does," Armin said. He adjusted his glasses, and shook his head. "Nobody just makes giant robots to attack a major city for no reason. Aren't you the one who knows stuff about comics? What would be a villain's motive in this kind of situation?"

Eren didn't know. There were different types of motivations— chaos, money, power, vengeance… But this seemed random. Robots. Giants. Chicago. Eren had no idea. And he admitted it. Armin slumped, and he frowned, and Eren could tell this was going to bother him.

"We need to get past Levi," Mikasa said, glaring at the door disdainfully. "Any ideas?"

"Oh, that's simple," Armin said. "Levi can drop us off at school— assuming we aren't telling anyone that we're doing this, which I would normally advise against, but considering the circumstances—"

"Agreed," Eren said. He frowned, and looked down at his uniform glumly. "Do we have time, though…?"

"I think either way we're pretty pressed," Armin said. "It won't matter at this point, as long as we get there."

Eren didn't actually believe that, and he didn't think Armin did either, but there was nothing they could really do. Mikasa glanced at her phone, and Annie looked around Eren's room with vague curiosity flickering in her eyes, and Armin seemed to be thinking, his eyes distant. Something occurred to Eren at that moment, and he looked pointedly at Annie.

"If you're gonna fight with us," Eren said firmly, frowning down at Annie as she turned to face him, "then you need to join the mindlink."

She stared at him with her tired, vacant eyes, and he felt like kicking himself.

Armin flinched as though someone had dug their heel into his foot. "But I can't!" Armin gasped, his eyes flickering to Annie's face. She kept staring at Eren, and her vacant gaze narrowed into a chilly fury. "She has a wall up, remember?"

"Eren's right," Mikasa said, raising her chin high at Armin. "Annie can't cooperate with us if we're not communicating with her. If we're relying on the link, she needs to be part of it." Eren could tell this did not make Mikasa happy, but it was truly their best option.

"I know," Armin said softly. "But I can't just break the wall."

"Take it down, Annie," Eren said. The tiny girl averted her gaze, as though his words were making her uncomfortable. "Please, we need to be able to talk to you."

"Then talk," Annie said, her eyes flashing to Eren's face. "Your larynx hasn't been damaged. You don't need to rely on mental communication."

"It's more convenient," Mikasa said. "And tactically a better option."

Annie stiffened. Tactically. That was the word that had caught her attention. Because it was certainly correct— out in the field, in the middle of a battle, a telepathic link could be the only thing that could save them. Annie needed to be in on that, or else she'd be dead weight.

She pressed her lips together very thinly, and then turned to face Armin. She watched his face, her eyes flickering very fast, and she exhaled sharply. She shook her head, as though she could not believe that they had roped her into this, and then she grabbed Armin's wrist. In response, Armin nearly fell backwards in surprise, looking confused and alarmed and a little frightened as she pulled at his navy blue glove with her own pale blue fingers. He tore his hand from her, and for a moment Eren thought he was about to shove her, his eyes growing wide with shock and anger.

"What are you doing?" he gasped, taking a cautious step back as she reached for his hand again.

"You want in my head," Annie said, catching Armin's gloved fingers with her own, "don't you?"

"Not particularly," Armin admitted, glancing at Eren sharply. "I mean, yes, tactically it's a good decision for all of us to be connected, and yes, it's more convenient that way, but I'm personally against prying into your—"

"Then don't pry," Annie said, tugging the rayon fabric from his bony hand. The glove slid away from Armin's milk-white knuckles, and Eren could tell that Annie wasn't nearly as confident with this idea as she was trying to play. She hesitated as she looked at Armin's bare hand in her gloved one, as though she was unable to bare her own skin.

"You can't actually want to touch me," Armin said softly, disbelief causing his voice to crack miserably.

"I don't," Annie replied.

Armin smiled then, and it was a bitter one. "Then why exactly are you trying?" he asked, watching as Annie finally pulled at the tips of her right glove. "It's not a pleasant experience— Eren and Mikasa are the exception. It…" He eyed her bare hand, a pale wrist connected to a sallow hand connected to onyx fingers that danced with a brilliant gleam in the rays of morning sunlight filtering through Eren's window. "It hurts."

"I know," Annie said. She held up her blackened fingertips, and Eren could see the cracks of her skin, her fingerprints carved into her frozen, ice encrusted flesh as though with a thin, precise blade. "I get it." _I can't control my power either_, Eren could almost hear her say. It was written in the way her eyes dropped, and her fingers drooped, and her lips drew downwards into an apprehensive frown.

_I hate you two_, Armin informed them. _A lot. What if it doesn't work?_

_Then we tried?_ Eren tilted his head. _Sorry, dude_.

_I'm going to sever the connection_, Armin told them, turning to face Annie. She'd frozen up upon realizing that she really had to touch Armin, it seemed, and her hand was continuing to droop in midair as he cautiously raised his own. _You guys don't need to feel this._

And just like that, Mikasa and Eren were separated from Armin, and from each other. That feeling by itself was a little crippling, the sensation of having an anvil dropped onto a limb— the limb is still there, probably, but there was a crushing sensation and a little bit of empty pain that drummed itself into existence very slowly. Eren could almost feel the link loosen in the void, spreading just far enough apart for Eren to not be able to reach Mikasa's mind, and not be able to feel Armin's anxiety.

He hated it. It was like being forced away from them all over again.

"Ready?" Armin asked Annie carefully, offering out his hand in the kind of way that suggested he was trying very hard not to take several steps back. Eren could see his fingers trembling.

"Yeah…" Annie lifted her own hand— half-frozen, crystallized fingers and a white fleshy palm. She moved it very slowly, and Eren watched with great curiosity as the tips of her blackened fingers brushed Armin's pallid ones.

Both blonds jerked visibly in shock, their bodies buckling as Annie choked on a gasp, and Armin gave a sharp, terrible shout of pain. Eren couldn't understand why. Why it was so painful for Armin to touch anyone— not just Annie, but anyone. Why it had never bothered him when he'd been younger, but now Armin was just hypersensitive to everyone except Eren and Mikasa and Erwin. Why were Armin's powers such a strain, when even Eren's powers could be put under control through medication and routine checks.

Their hands flew apart— they had barely been touching in the first place— and both Annie and Armin took instinctual steps away from each other. Armin was cradling his hand to his chest, while Annie was staring at her own with a dazed, vague horror. Eren saw that she was hunched, rigid in a way that Annie normally was not, as though the experience had left her emotionally rattled.

"Sorry," Annie mumbled. She turned away from Armin before handing him back his glove.

"I-it's fine," Armin stammered. He'd closed his eyes, and Eren could tell he was in pain very suddenly by the sound of his voice. Eren marched up to him, and grabbed him by his forearm, pulling his hand away from his chest. "I'm fine, Eren."

The tips of his fingers were white. Not the milky, fleshy white that they were supposed to be, no. Armin's fingers were frosted over in a layer of ice, crystals lacing the grooves of his flesh, miniature snowflakes gathering in the crease of his knuckles. It suddenly made sense to Eren why Annie wore gloves as often as she did. He'd suspected right— that Annie had very little control over her power. It manifested through her flesh, though the pores of her skin and through her very blood. Ice was inside her, and it wanted out so badly that it was freezing her entire body, and anyone else's that got too close.

The frost that clung to Armin's skin was already melting, but the fact remained that Annie had unintentionally done it just by brushing her fingers to his. An innocent act. And Armin slipped his glove back on, and he bent his fingers back and forth carefully.

Eren felt the familiar brush of Armin's mind as he reassembled the connection like a weaver at a loom. He felt Mikasa's presence return, and suddenly there was another string stretching between Eren's mind and another. Annie felt like something distant that he could see, but not touch or feel. She was simply there, like a cloud, or a mountain in the distance.

_Okay_, Armin said. _Are we all online, then?_

_Yep_, Eren said. He returned to his backpack, and grabbed his sweater vest.

_Yeah_, said Mikasa. She was watching Annie with a frown.

_I guess_, Annie said. Even her voice was distant, like an old song tuning in and out rapidly on a phonograph, scratching the walls of Eren's mind as it struck the chords that connected the four of them mentally.

_Okay_… Armin's eyes looked tired behind the lenses of his glasses, and he sighed. _Let's get started_.

It wasn't hard to trick Levi. Not when they were all linked mentally, and pretty much already prepared for any inquisitions about their behavior. Levi was thankfully uninterested in their silence, and kicked them out just like he did every morning. They went without a word, and waited until he was gone to leave school property. They walked down the street, bags over their shoulders, uniforms still on, and they mentally discussed how they'd go about taking down a giant robot.

They got to JFK pretty quickly, all things considering. Security did not stop them, because they could not see them, and Eren found Hange's planes where they had been the last time Hange had took him there. The jet was already gone. They were in the clear.

Armin looked a little sick as they sat in the plane, preparing for take off. Eren stared at him, and he wondered if he was afraid of planes, or something. Eren grimaced as Armin looked at him with a certain degree of shock glimmering in his large blue eyes behind the thin frames of his glasses. He was sitting in his seat, his feet up as he embraced his knees. He looked like a child.

_I'm fine, Eren_, Armin said.

_You look sorta pukey_, Eren said, trying to sound gentle in their heads. Instead he sounded brutally sharp and accusing.

_I have a headache_, Armin admitted. _But that's not really a big deal. My powers give me headaches all the time_.

_I have motrin_, Mikasa said, pulling her gray backpack into her lap. She retrieved a pale white box, a first-aid kit, and pried it open. She fished a tiny bottle from it, and offered it out to Armin who took it gratefully. _I don't have any water, though_—

Armin had already popped off the cap and shaken three bright orange capsules into his palm, throwing them back into his mouth. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly, clicking the cap back into place. Mikasa studied him with a furrowed brow, while Eren simply sat and frowned.

"Do you take drugs a lot?" Eren asked. "'Cause I can't even swallow one pill without a glass of milk."

"I told you," Armin said, sounding self-conscious as he turned his attention out the window. "I get headaches a lot."

Eren shrugged. He saw Annie watching them from the corner of her eye, her hands at the controls, and he saw that she looked almost… nervous. _You think you can handle this, Annie?_ Eren asked.

_Just hold on_, Annie responded, turning her face away from them. That didn't reassure Eren any. In fact, it made him a little worried. But the take off went smoothly, and they were in the air before they knew it. Eren's concern faded very fast, and he began wondering aloud what Annie's moniker could be.

"Do I need one?" Annie's knuckles were white as she stared ahead of her, her tired eyes searching the clouds.

"Of course you do," Eren said. "Don't you wanna be a hero?"

"I don't see why I need to change my name." Annie's voice was dull and bored, and she shrugged meagerly.

"You're not _changing _it," Eren sighed. "You're _protecting_ it."

"That's stupid."

_You're stupid_, Eren bit back. The scathing look Annie threw back at him suggested that she heard him.

"Eren's right," Armin said. "It's better not to use our names. We could get into a lot of trouble if anyone found out who we really are."

Annie decided not to respond. It was like this constantly nowadays, getting Annie to talk only for her to clamp up just when the conversation was going somewhere. It was disheartening, because Eren wanted to know Annie better, but she just didn't seem to _want_ to be known. Eren wasn't one to usually give a fuck when a person didn't want to talk— that was their business. But Annie was reclosed enough to make anyone antsy.

"How about Lionheart?" Eren offered.

Annie's shoulders squared, her entire body going rigid as though he'd pinched her waist to make her jump. She twisted to look at him, and he could see that she was surprised, albeit mildly. "What?" she said.

"Lionheart," Eren repeated with a shrug. "Like, your last name. Leonhardt. That's what it means, right?"

She was quiet. The corner of her lips twitched. "I… guess…" she said slowly.

"Then we'll just use that, if that's okay," Eren said. "I mean, unless you don't like it. Then we can change it. Did you want somethin' ice-themed, 'cause like—"

"Lionheart is fine," Annie cut in, turning back to face her clouds and her silence. Eren frowned.

Eren ended up sharing his earbuds with Armin for a little while until he fell asleep. When he woke up, the music was still pumping through his ears, and he noticed that Mikasa had half-changed into her Nio outfit. She had the golden band around her shoulders, and by extension the flimsy sheer fabric that split at her abdomen in order to hook at the scabbard of her sword resting at the small of her back. She was still wearing her uniform skirt, and her button down, but Eren figured they would all have to make adjustments for today. Her Nio mask was resting in her lap.

Armin was wearing his white hood, and his gloves from his Cicero outfit, which danced with scrawled words in a surreal twitching of letters. Eren couldn't help but notice the faint brown stains that flecked the hem of his hood, and the insides of his palms. The stains were barely noticeable, but to someone looking for them, they were horrifying.

"It's shown up on the news," Mikasa informed him as he stripped off his sweater vest. "Just half an hour ago. Before that, there wasn't any confirmation of giant robots."

"Are we almost there?" Eren asked, slapped his mask over his eyes. It had a heavy adhesive that allowed it to stick to his eyes, but it was also made of some weird polymer that conformed to his bone structure. Hange, Eren had decided, was fucking magic.

_I'm trying to find a place to land close to the city,_ Annie said. Eren peeked out the window, and saw the Chicago skyline glimmering behind a layer of smog and smoke.

"Drop me," Eren said.

He felt Mikasa and Armin's eyes fall upon him with the shock and confusion that one radiated from their fierce gazes. He could almost feel the word flutter off the edges of their link, fringing at the ribbons of their connection. _Suicide_. But it wasn't. Eren could survive it.

"Drop you," Annie repeated aloud. "I don't know if I'd be able to see anything if I got any closer."

"Then drop me here," Eren said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "I can get a running start."

"What does that mean?" Armin squeaked, staring up at Eren. "Are you… going to go completely Rogue?"

"Giant robots," Eren said. "Giant monster. I'll tear 'em apart."

"That's too dangerous," Mikasa said, lurching forward as though to grab him. Her seatbelt held her back, and he fumbled around the cabin for a moment. "Eren, are you listening? You can't just become fifteen meters tall like that, there are _people_ down there—"

"It'll be fine," Eren said.

"I'm not sure that's sound judgment, Eren," Armin squeaked. "Doesn't going Rogue drain your energy? You could pass out— you could pass out while _inside_ Rogue!"

"I know, I know!" Eren grunted as Annie jerked the plane to the right, and his back went slamming against the wall of the plane. "I know. I'll take responsibility if I hurt anyone, and if I pass out—" Eren looked pointedly at Mikasa. "Cut me out."

"Cut you…?" Mikasa's face was utterly emotionless, but he could tell she was horrified.

"Cut down the nape of my neck," Eren said, feeling dazed as he spoke. "Down, not across. If you cut across, you'll kill me."

"Eren…"

_Eren_, Armin said gently. _You're right. Rogue is something we're going to need. But we need to be careful_—

"People could be dying!" Eren cried. "There's a city that's being wrecked to shit, and you wanna talk danger? We can't afford it, Armin, we don't have time! If I'm gonna go, I'm going _now._"

_I'm dropping you_, Annie said. _I've gotten close enough to a street to land, but I'll drop you first. Get ready_.

"Good," Eren said, edging toward the emergency exit. Armin and Mikasa were both leaning forward, their seatbelts restricting them as they twisted to face Eren. They both looked incredibly pained, as though they could not understand why he was doing this. He tried to smile at them, and he said, _C'mon guys, you get to see Rogue for the first time, how awesome is that?_

But they just stared at him.

They didn't care.

They were scared, and Eren was fueling their fear with his recklessness. And the truth was, he didn't care either. He raised his left hand to his lips.

_This is a bad idea_, Armin said.

Eren yanked on the latch, and his stomach lurched almost painfully as he was sucked from the airplane as though he was a leaf snatched up by the wind. He could hear nothing but the ferocity of the air as it tossed him around senselessly, viciously, angrily tearing at him as his limbs flailed in midair, his hair fluttering across his eyes and around his ears and whooshing in the whistling air. For a moment, Eren forgot where he was. For a gut-wrenching, paralyzing moment, he forgot who he was. Freefalling was the type of thrill that attacked every muscle, every tendon, ever cell and atom and molecule of your being. There was shock, and it allowed the body to be utterly still as nature attacked it like feral dogs diving at a fresh slab of meat. Eren could not recall what he was doing in that moment, because he was so taken aback by the brutality of gravity, the beauty of falling.

He recovered as he flipped himself unsteadily onto his stomach. The ground was spinning upwards to meet him, zooming in and threatening to collide with him. Could Eren come back from being a blood smear on the side of a street? Could he regenerate his bones, his nerves and veins and muscle and flesh? Could he come back from complete annihilation?

It didn't matter. He forced his fist between his teeth, and tore at his skin with a ferocity that could rival the snarling wind around him. He felt the warmth of blood pool against his tongue, sickly sweet and acrid and burning him as though it was aflame, and suddenly it _was_, and so was _he_. His body was engulfed in fire, and he felt it spike through him with the fleeting intensity of lightning— he could almost taste the electricity as it bound him to threads of new flesh and veins, pinning him into a position of crucifixion, and sending him aloft upon a mountain of muscle and bone. Veins and nerves protruded from his pores, and he felt it tear at him until it became him. He became it.

He was unusually tuned into his sense as his massive legs crashed into the asphalt of a tiny street, crunching the road beneath colossal toes. He blinked rapidly, seeing through glimmering eyes that reflected sunlight like satellite dishes, and he straightened his limbs, too big and too cumbersome, and he tilted his head toward the sky. His acute senses were alerting him to something. His gaping nostrils flared as the scent hit his nose. Burning. Burning metal. His pointed ears twitched. There was a grinding sound close by. Grinding, shuddering— an engine failing. Screaming. Voices ricocheting in his brain, which was too tiny for such a massive being.

_Eren, help us!_

His instincts forced his hand as he leapt up, his body stretching forward as he cupped his giant hands, nearly stumbling as a busted toy plane fell into his grasp. Twisted metal wings burned his skin. He whined, his maw opening and exhaling steam in irritation.

He squinted into the little toy plane, and saw a tiny blonde girl pressed into a seat, forehead glistening bright crimson, and Rogue's mind became aware of the damage his transformation had done to that of these tiny, tiny friends. The girl was slumped, her eyes closed, and Rogue's skinless mouth opened and closed, wishing to say something. An apology.

"Eren!"

A tiny blond boy had appeared in a gaping hole at the side of the toy plane. His hair was half-framing his cheeks, lemon-colored and fluttering against the wind. The rest was twisted behind his head, holding the frames of his little doll-sized glasses in place. Rogue moaned softly, and he pulled the toy closer to his face. The boy was now eyelevel, and Rogue wished the boy would smile. But he didn't. He merely stared at Rogue, his expression morose.

"Eren," said the boy. "Your mind isn't making sense. It's all scrambled— and it's burning. It tastes like someone put your thoughts in a metal container and stuck it inside an open flame. Like—" He looked a little terrified, and he reached out toward Rogue, his white gloves carrying heavy words that peeled away and threatened to stick to the heat of Rogue's skin. "Like skin blistering, like the grease of charred meat, and it's not… stopping…"

"Armin!" A girl in a strange white and black mask appeared in the gaping hole, and in one arm she held the bleeding blonde girl. Rogue relaxed, and blinked rapidly. He was doing something. Yes, yes, he was doing something. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Armin said. "A little rattled, but fine. Is Annie—?"

"Knocked out," said the girl. "The blood's already crystallized, though, so I don't think it'll be fore long."

"Okay," Armin said. "Eren, can you take us with you into the city?"

Rogue nodded eagerly, his ragged brown hair falling into his eyes, and he felt like he could smile giddily, but he didn't have lips. Just a skinless mouth. He watched Armin and the girl— _Mikasa_, his mind whispered fiercely, _idiot_— and Annie climb onto his palm. He dropped the plane. It crumpled against the battered street, and Rogue closed his eyes. He was regaining some semblance of organized thought. He knew it.

"I hope Hange doesn't kill you," Armin told him, resting his gloved palm on Rogue's long nose. Rogue turned toward the city and began to walk slowly forward. He was wary of cars, carefully stepping around them as they passed by.

Annie woke up in Rogue's palms. Mikasa had jumped from his hands to his shoulder, overlooking the city like some kind of conqueror, while Armin had decided to sit beside Annie. She sat up, touched the fresh skin of her forehead, and blinked rapidly.

"Welcome to the Rogue Express," Armin said jokingly. Annie didn't smile.

"Why is his skin so hot?" Annie asked, sounding almost disgusted.

"I'm not exactly sure," Armin said, "but I think it has to do with the energy he has to produce to maintain this size."

Annie said nothing in response, so Rogue assumed she just took that answer as true enough. Rogue was having trouble maneuvering between buildings now as he squeezed into the Chicago streets. Luckily everyone evacuated from his path, or else he'd probably squash them.

"Oh, wow," Armin breathed. _Eren, talk to me_.

Eren saw the smoke and the wreckage with a harsh, blinding clarity as metal limbs shattered glass and tore up streets and crushed tiny toy cars. He could see one strange looking beast, animalistic and glinting in the sunlight as it hopped from building to building, fire huffing from its maw. Eren saw this. Eren exhaled sharply, steam billowing from his nostrils.

_I can fight them_, Eren said.

Armin relaxed in Eren's palm, and he smiled. _Good to hear_, he said. _You'll need your hands, so can you put Annie and I down?_

Eren raised his cupped hands a little above his head, and listened to Armin and Annie shout in shock as Eren let them go. They fell into his twisted, scraggly brown hair and Armin shouted in alarm as he slipped right off Eren's head. Eren was about to catch him when a tiny, gloved hand caught Armin by his skinny wrist, and the words on his stained white gloves glowed eerily as he hung awkwardly before Eren's left eye socket.

"Eren, I'm gonna kick you in the eye!" Armin cried, his little face scrunching up in frustration.

Eren's skinless mouth parted, his teeth clanging together as he made a guttural, breathy sound, his chest vibrating as his head bobbed. He was laughing. Armin's boot caught Eren's long, flat nose, and gained enough traction to steady himself. He was pulled onto Eren's head, and he sat for a moment in a nest of gnarled brown hair, breathless and heaving.

_That robo_t, Armin said. _It's… extremely advanced. Look at the way it's moving, it's so precise. It's destructive, yes, but not volatile. It's almost self-aware of what it's doing, like it's_…

_Intelligent_, Annie completed for him.

_I'm not saying it's Artificial Intelligence_, Armin said as Eren continued to approach the mess the robots had made in the central roads of Chicago. _I can't know that for sure, of course, but there's definitely something deliberate about its movements. If someone is controlling it, they're doing it to show off their power_.

_Does it matter?_ Mikasa asked, rolling up the thin, pale sleeves of her uniform shirt. Her intricately carved ivory and ebony mask of a Nio guardian was gleaming in the morning sunlight. She was standing on Eren's shoulder, balanced perfectly in preparation for whatever fight that would ensue. _Either way, it'll end up in a scrapheap. Why the hell should it matter if it's smart or not?_

_Because, Mikasa_, Armin said. Eren could feel his fear as it strummed the fibers of their mindlink. _Big scary monsters, yeah, they're bad and tough. But the real danger isn't the big scary monster. It's what's controlling it that's terrifying— that's where the real danger is. And if the big scary monster ends up being the intelligent one, then we need to be really, really careful where we tread. Because there's too much power in strength, and too much strength in knowledge, and too much knowledge in power— do you see what I'm saying?_

_I think so_, Mikasa said. _But I don't get it. It doesn't look intelligent at all to me._

_It's avoiding casualties_, Armin said. _All this destruction is superficial. It's not attacking civilians, look. It jumped right over that woman there!_

Eren didn't really care if it wasn't hurting people. It needed to fucking die. So Eren started forward, his body coiling with tension as he reached out and snatched the dancing robot from its perch on the side of a skyscraper. It looked at him with glassy black eyes. It opened its mouth, metal claws drawing across the firm muscle of Rogue's arms, and it coughed a ball of fire into Eren's eyes.

He screamed in shock, letting go of the giant robot— which was all bulky limbs, and large teeth, and flames, and eyes, and it was so— so human, and so monstrous, and so animalistic, all at the same time. And it was artificial. Eren had to remind himself of that. It wasn't alive. It couldn't die. It just could be destroyed.

_Eren!_ Mikasa cried, though Eren couldn't tell if it was in their heads or aloud. There was fire in his eyes. He thought he might be crying, but it could just be the ashes of his eyelids. He felt her jump from his shoulder, though he could not see her, for his eyes were all black and red and light and flashing colors that he could not fathom, for he was locked inside a burning mass of flesh and bone and nerves clinging to his skinny frame. He heard Mikasa shouting, and he heard the sound of metal crunching, sound waves thundering upon the impact of her bones against a metal shell. And flames were crackling, and people were screaming, and suddenly Eren was Rogue again, completely unsure of what was going on around him.

He toppled onto his back, and he shook the world around him just because he could. _Eren_, Armin said, _Eren! What the fuck are you doing?!_

He lay on his back, the busted road digging into his sides, and he began to cry. Fire and ash clung to his eyelashes, his eyelids, and he cried gray tears, thick and soupy and angry. He clawed at his eyes, and screamed, because he was so fucking angry, and he wanted it all to go away.

"Eren," his father had whispered, wiping the ash and gray-paste tears that clung to his round, chubby cheeks. "Eren, what happened…?"

_Why do you care?_ Eren had thought, his lips parted in dull shock. _You weren't there. You're never there. You ran away from us, like you always do. And look at you. And look at me. I couldn't save her. I couldn't fucking save her_.

"I couldn't save her," Eren had whispered back numbly. His entire body began to shake. The sound of metal filled his ears, and fire burned his eyes. Tears spilt onto his cheeks, hot and residual of ash and misery. He stared at his father's face, swimming in the chilly depths of his memory, sad and pitying, always pitying, always trying to help but at a distance, as though he'd catch some terrible disease by merely touching Eren's decaying, angry, shaky body. Before this moment, Eren could barely recall the last time his father had smiled at him, let alone condescended to touch him. "I couldn't do it, I couldn't— I tried, but I couldn't move, I _couldn't_—!"

"This isn't your fault, Eren," his father had murmured, smoothing back his hair. "If you had gone back in to save her, you would have died too, don't you see?"

"I should have, then!" Eren had cried, his voice breaking into an agonized, breathy sob. "I should just die, already!"

"Eren!" The voice was not his father's. It was softer, higher, warmer. But his father had spoken, his brow knitted in that awful, pitying way of his.

"You know it," Eren had gasped, wanting nothing more than to shove his father away. "You know that it should have been me, and I bet you hate me for it, right? I hate me for it. I hate— I hate being weak, and I hate that I couldn't save her! Why the _fuck_ couldn't I save her?"

"Eren—!"

He slammed his hands down on his knees, and the sound of metal snapping made him aware of his humanity. Eren Jaeger looked up at his father, and he jumped to his feet. He swayed, and he stared with flames in his eyes and metal grinding feebly, and his nostrils flared in rage.

"I don't wanna be weak," Eren said, his voice as shaky as his knees. "I ain't gonna lay down and take it no more. You've gotta make me strong."

His father's eyes were suddenly no longer pitying. They were scared. Terrified. Eren was glad. He wanted his father to be scared of him, scared of what he could be capable of. "Eren…" his father had whispered. He was pleading with his voice, with that single word, with a name that he could not control.

"Make me strong," Eren had demanded, his lips trembling, his eyes red and puffy from the smoke and the fury and the crushing, paralyzing pain of knowing he was now alone, and his father would never be able to understand him the way his mother had. "Make me strong, like you said you'd do for Armin."

"Did Armin tell you that?" his father had asked.

"No," Eren had said with graceless bitterness. "Armin thinks you're gonna kill him. He says it all the time, y'know, that he's gonna die in here, gonna die, gonna die, and you just don't care, do you, that that's what everyone thinks of you, as the blessed damn grim reaper, 'cause that's your shtick, ain't it? You just take people, and make them think you're gonna save them, but they know better." Eren's face was glistening, but there were no tears now. Only fire. Only rage. "If you can't make me strong, then get away from me! I don't wanna ever see you again!"

"Eren!"

"Go!" Eren shoved his father, but ended up falling flat on his back. And he lay there, shuddering, the ashes of his former house kissing his cheeks, and he stared up at the stars that could not be seen through the layers of smoke that had caused the heavens to go filmy and dark. And he lifted his chin to them, a mocking salute, his trembling lips parting and his blackened teeth baring. And he screamed.

"Eren!" Armin was pounding a fist into his large forehead, and Eren was still screaming, seven years later, and he was still struggling to get to his feet. "Get up! Eren, you—" Armin's voice was strained, and Eren wondered if this was the same battered boy from his memory. "Fuck! You stupid, stupid big, dumb— urgh!" Armin's palms slammed down upon Eren's brow. "I can't even be articulate when I talk to you, you're so dumb! Get up!"

His words were funny. Eren chuckled, and his entire body vibrating with the sound. Armin froze, and he straightened up, sitting upon Eren's nose and blinking rapidly. Eren poked him gently with one giant finger, and the boy squeaked. _Shuddap, you're the dumb one_, Eren thought. He wished he could smile. _Dummy_.

Armin managed a strangled laugh, though it sounded forced. "Your head," Armin said, "is not even remotely okay, Eren. I can't even begin to figure out what's going on inside it."

'_S okay_, Eren said. _Nothin' important, I don't think. Just daddy stuff, nothin' exciting_.

At least, he didn't think it was. He could remember that he'd been thinking about his father, and about his mother's death, but… it was all pretty hazy.

Armin stood up, and he jumped down from Eren's face and onto his chest as he struggled to raise himself. All around him, there was chaos. Eren saw Mikasa standing beside a bulky man, blond haired and brutish. But he was grinning, and he nodded to her, grabbing her by the arm and swinging her off the ground and around and around until her momentum was enough to sail her high enough in the air to catch that goddamn fire breathing robot of hell. She did, of course, and Eren watched her punch a nice dent into the side of its hunched abdomen. Annie was standing beside a very tall boy, her neck craned up at another giant robot— this one looking strangely feminine in form. And then Annie ran forward, and Eren saw pillars of ice rise beneath her feet with every stride she took.

Armin slipped off of Eren and onto the road, standing there for a moment and looking around him in awe. The destruction was… massive. It was like any popcorn flick Eren had ever seen, complete with the giant fucking robots and the burning, overturned cars— and holy fuck, this was shitty. What was even happening right now, like…?

_From what I gathered_, Armin said, _Reiner and Bertholdt ended up here too. Mikasa's friends, Jean and Marco, they're here, and two girls with them. Reiner said one of them was apparently at the institution too, but I don't remember her. But I don't really remember Reiner and Bertholdt very well either, so…_

That struck a chord with Eren, and he sat up, blinking between his old friends as they stood in the middle of the road, watching the destruction with the same expression of loss on their faces.

_Reiner and Mikasa called the Dancer— sorry, that's what I'm calling the fire one. Annie said she wanted to take the Female one, and Marco and Jean are pretty much just distracting the Armored one until you can fight it._ Armin looked up, his large blue eyes watching him tiredly from behind his tiny spectacles. _Can you fight it, Eren?_

Eren rose to his feet. Instead of responding, he opened up his mouth, skinless and terrible, and he roared with all the fury and all the inexplicable misery that had surfaced from his past. He ran, his bones stretching as his muscles worked to get at the Armored robot— the only one that could be the Armored one, tall and plated with steel in all the right places in order to prevent immediate damage. Everyone on the ground moved away from him as he dove at the monstrous robot, his fist connecting with its mighty metal jaw.

It blinked at him. Eren couldn't tell if it did that with a hint of intelligence, with a spark of humor, or if it just blinked because it was in its circuitry to blink.

The robot backhanded Eren so hard, he flew into the side of a building, and glass shredded through his shoulder as windows and steel shattered and bent around him, burrowing into his flesh and gnawing eagerly at his exposed muscle. Eren roared again, his head flying back, and he kicked the robot away, sending it staggering into the building across the street. Glass was raining down onto the road, and bathing the busted, cracked walkways with shards of the glimmering morning sky.

Eren pulled himself from out of the side of the building, and he glowered at the robot. He'd finish this. He had to.

Armin's verbal cry forced Eren to tear his eyes away from the robot. He saw, alarmed and furious, that the robot that Annie had claimed had grabbed Armin. Literally, Armin was clutched in its giant metal fist as it brought it up to its face. Annie was lying in the street, and Eren saw that she'd frozen her entire right arm. Eren didn't know if it was because it was broken, or if she was using it as a weapon.

_Armin!_ Mikasa cried. She had just jumped from a roof.

_I'm okay_, he said, though his mental voice sounded strained. _It's not hurting me, it's just staring. Mikasa, I think they're sentient_.

_Isn't that bad?_ Mikasa had completely ditched her own robot claim, and was running at the vaguely female one. _You said that was bad._

_None of them have actually killed anyone_, Armin said. He was sort of just hanging limply in the hand of the giant robot. _So I'm not— oh, crap_—

_Armin?_ Eren called out into their mindlink. He noticed the fingers clutching Armin were crystallizing. And Armin with them. _Armin!_

And then it dropped him. Something zoomed past its fingers, and Eren heard it chip away at the metal, grazing the frozen knuckles and colliding with the ground. And down Armin went. He screamed, his white cloak fluttering around him as he was whipped through the air not dissimilarly from how Eren had before he had transformed. There were feral dogs tripping over themselves to get at Armin. There were jackals in the wind, waiting for him to crash against the pavement before they tore him apart.

A blur of color caught Eren's eye, a whoosh of green in a sea of gray and black and white and the reflection of blue against the glimmering glass that littered the vacant Chicago street. The haze of bright green caught Armin, and skidded to a stop not too far from Eren's foot. It was a boy, standing with his dark face raised to look up at Eren, and both his arms clutching Armin as he clawed at his chest, wheezing softly.

It was a boy Eren had never seen before. Not at the institute, not anywhere. He had a dark face, and a shaved head, and a pair of eyebrows shaped almost purposely to make him appear confused, and a lopsided smile that suggested he had no idea what he was actually doing.

"'Sup?" the boy called up to Eren. Eren started as someone jumped onto his shoulder from _somewhere_ above him, and he blinked at the grinning brunette girl who decided to poke him in the face with a fucking bow.

"Holy crap!" crowed the girl. "You're Rogue!"

* * *

_I remember writing this chapter and thinking, "How the fuck is any of this gonna make sense?" Well, after the chapter I just wrote, everything in this story seems like a cohesive piece of art. (Meaning, I feel so sorry for anyone who manages to trek through the seventeenth chapter. Good fucking luck.)_

_Oh, the next chapter is a change of pace! It's completely a flashback! God bless. So you won't find out what happens next until the chapter after this, and even then it's a bit shifty because of the point of view I chose. My mistake. I regret it, but I'm not rewriting the chapter, so oops. That's what I get for trying out new point of views._

_By the way, there was no colossal robot because like...? That would have really destroyed Chicago, and that's not what I wanted. _


	10. to not go forward is to go backward

_**non progredi est regredi**_

**Salem, Oregon**

_2760, A.U.C_.

Connie Springer had the normalest of early childhoods. No, really. He had a mom and a dad, and a bunch of siblings, and a house in the suburbs that was cozy, but not too small, and there was nothing strange— his mother wasn't murdered on his birthday, he wasn't from the future, he didn't have a clone or an evil twin, and he was pretty damn sure he wasn't Magneto's son.

So, like, when he was a toddler, he went to daycare one day and became friends with Sasha Braus. He couldn't remember how. He couldn't remember if it was before or after she'd stolen his cracker jacks box and guzzled the entirety of it, leaving only the toy. He couldn't remember if she had pushed him off the swing because she'd been teasing him, or because she hated his guts at the time and wanted that fucking swing to herself, and he couldn't remember when or how they'd gotten to the point where they were racing every day on the playground (he always won), or throwing rocks at the busted windows of old buildings to see who could make 'em shatter (she always won).

His and Sasha's was the kind of friendship that didn't really have a beginning or end. They lived their lives circulating around each other, never considering the fact that they were totally dependent on one-another for survival in the great wide world. Not that they couldn't survive without each other— Sasha could probably survive a nuclear apocalypse, honestly— but Connie found that he was very unhappy when Sasha wasn't around. He'd turn to tell a joke, and there was nothing but an empty space. He hated that feeling. It made him feel like something bad had happened.

When they'd been six, Connie had been invited over to Sasha's house for the first time. Sasha had lived a little farther out at the time, near a little forest where her father had taken her and Connie. That was the first time Connie had ever seen Sasha's archery at work, and he would never not be impressed by her concentration and precision. She was a total klutz when it came to, well, everything— but hunting was different. Sasha could hunt with her eyes closed.

Anyway, the moral of that story is basically never take Connie Springer hunting, because he will cry. And run away. And when you serve him your most recent kill for dinner that night, he'll cry even _more_, and you'll have to pat his back awkwardly as he hiccups and tries not to puke. After the first three times, Sasha became mindful of Connie's sensitivity to the death of animals, and whenever he came over the meat was store bought, and there was lots and lots of vegetables and fruit for him to gnaw at.

When they'd been seven, Sasha had moved away.

That had hurt.

Seven-year-old Connie Springer was loud. He was sociable. He made fart jokes and pretended he was bigger than he really was and got beat up on the playground, but mostly because he was begging for someone to beat him up so he could come home and grin up at his mom when she asked what had happened, and say, "Momma, I punched a guy in the face!" She got sick of that after awhile, but eventually Connie started getting a reputation for being a reckless, mindless ball of energy, and once just about everyone had a go at him, no one really wanted to fight him anymore.

So, when Sasha had moved away, Connie had been hit unlike he'd ever been hit before. The universe had given Connie its best right hook, and Connie had gone flying. He'd lost teeth. He'd torn his lips on the asphalt of fate. He'd sat up, bloodied and bold and breathing heavy. And then, he'd washed his face with his tears.

Sasha didn't move very far. It was almost an hour by car. Just far enough that she had to go to another school. Just far enough that it would be too far to run, by anyone's calculations. Too arduous to ride a bike. Too much effort to keep a friendship going. It was like everyone expected Connie and Sasha to just quit right then and there. Their friendship was basically over. They'd never last. They were just two really dumb kids who made each other feel smart. They made each other laugh. That was all their friendship was really based on.

Against all expectations, though, Connie didn't quit. He figured out a route from his house to Sasha's house. It took him about two hours to run there. He got really good at it, the running. He figured, if he had to be good at something it might as well be the one thing he really needed, right? Right? Well, he thought so, at least. He actually ended up winning a few awards for it in the year post-Sasha's move. He'd been so surprised that his parents had praised him on something that it made him want to run more and more. It took him about an hour and a half to run to her house by the time Connie was eight, and barely an hour when he rode his bike.

He rode his bike one dark, damp, humid summer day, his wheels splashing puddles into the air, and his pedals squeaking miserably against the rust and the rain. He'd almost decided not to go to Sasha's today, but they were supposed to go wading in the creek near her house, and he didn't want to pass up the chance to dunk her. It'd just be a waste of a perfectly good, perfectly rainy day.

Connie had no real concept of safety at eight. He saw that there was a path he could take to Sasha's house. He took it. He didn't think twice. His mother never stopped him, his siblings never noticed his absence. In truth, he felt a little like a nobody in his own home. At least in the Braus house his presence was made aware by the fact that there was meat from Price Chopper on the table, and not from the Cold Room (the creepiest room in the entire house, with dank, wet walls, and a temperature low enough to allow you to walk into a wall of cold air upon entrance, where the frigid atmosphere rose up from beneath the cold, stained concrete floor and flooded the body with chilled terror as one stared upon all the strung up meat). So nobody gave a fuck where he was, really, since they already knew, and he was always back by nine.

He'd been taking this path every day for about a year. He had been running every day for the past month or so, and his little sister, Eliza, had left his bike out for weeks, allowing rust to gather at its chain and pedals. Connie had yelled at her for it, but she had simply stuck out her tongue, and taunted him with one of her Barbies. He was pretty sure she'd cursed him, or something, because she'd gotten her hands on an Esmeralda doll from the Disney version of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_, and apparently she was the Fearsome Witch of Salem, Elizabeth of Spring. Connie had been convinced, because of his dumb little sister, that the Salem Witch Trials had happened in his good ol' home town for years. No one had corrected him. What assholes.

So, there he was. Dim, dark summer afternoon. Connie Springer, with his tiny blue bike, and hair still on his head, and a pale green zip-up that wasn't even his, it was his sister's (an older one, Mari), and it had some dumb band written on the back that he couldn't really read so he just didn't. You'd think someone would be able to see that sweatshirt, because the rain wasn't heavy, not really, it was just a faint drizzle that misted across the bottom of the hill, and Connie went down it like he usually did. Fast as lightning, no turning back. The roads were slippery, and there was no traction for the tires to work with. Connie realized before he got to the foot of the hill that there was something wrong, so he backpedaled. The breaks didn't work. The chain was too rusted.

Later, in the hospital, Connie would say that he couldn't remember being hit, but that was a lie. He remembered it with the sort of clarity that he'd carry with him for the rest of his life. He woke up to the sound of a horn blaring. The majority of his body reacted whenever something metal crashed to the floor. He felt the terror of being thrown from his bike and rolled over the hood of a car whenever he closed his eyes, but he tried to smile it off, because he wanted to pretend it had never happened, that he hadn't lain across the slick black road, blood pooling around him, his limbs bent awkwardly and painfully, that he hadn't been staring up at the sky for minutes, minutes, minutes as a young man knelt beside him and apologized profusely for everything, he was so sorry, so sorry, but Connie had no idea who he was, and he hadn't seen his face, and he would never know now, would he?

At the time, Connie only knew death like he knew Europe. Europe was a place. It existed. People talked about it a lot with respect, and Connie figured he'd probably go there someday, even though it sounded a bit like a mythical paradise. That was death to him. Just a place he'd inevitably visit. There was no real comprehension there, there was no weight. There was no shock in the idea that someone went away and never came back. Connie's childhood was the normalest of childhoods. Nobody died. He was not an adopted Kryptionian baby. There was no concept of tragedy to him, unless Sasha's abrupt move to the fucking boondocks counted.

So laying on the very cold, very damp pavement, unable to move, unable to breathe, pained and paralyzed, Connie had not been thinking about his imminent death. He'd been thinking about Sasha. He'd been thinking about how she'd be waiting on her porch for him, and he'd still be lying there like an idiot because he couldn't feel his legs, and he didn't know why.

He had no clue how exactly he'd gotten to the hospital, but he'd woken up about a day after he'd been hit, and he remembered thinking he could really just go for Mrs. Braus's chicken salad. It didn't occur to him that he was in a hospital. He'd thought he was in his room for about five minutes after waking before he noticed the needle stuck inside his arm.

"You'll never walk again."

That's not the type of thing you wanna wake up to, especially when you're eight years old, the last thing you remember is the taste of your own blood filling your mouth, you realize your bike is trashed, and you won't be getting your fucking chicken salad.

Luckily Sasha had come bearing food, and she'd only eaten a quarter of it. It meant a lot, actually, coming from Sasha. She'd been incredibly cheerful throughout her entire visit, avoiding the topic of his accident and running, just babbling senselessly about nothing, and he couldn't help but laugh and smile with her, because even though he felt a little shattered on the inside, she had the ability to solidify him, if not for just a little while.

The funny thing about being crippled was that suddenly everyone was acutely aware of your presence. Connie Springer, who had been utterly invisible previous to the accident, was suddenly being watched wherever he went. He felt their eyes on his back, felt them with their pity and their caution, as though he was some poor, suffering animal left on the side of the road that they didn't want to approach, but couldn't look away from. Everyone handled him as though he was something fragile, something tender and teetering on the edge of complete destruction. His parents talked to him as though he was four years younger than he really was. Marigold avoided him, and once when he'd tried to give her back the green sweater he'd stolen from her that day, she'd gotten very upset.

"Why would I want it now?" she asked with her dark face pinched in disgust. Or, possibly pain. "It's all dirty. See, there's mud all over it." Connie sat in his wheelchair, green zip-up in his lap, and he looked down at it. He knew it wasn't mud.

Marigold was ten, and because she was the oldest she thought she knew everything, and she could do anything, and it really pissed Connie off because she was only two years older than him, and she wasn't any better at anything, really, except being a royal whiner. She looked a little like Connie, with her round, dark face, and acutely turned up eyebrows. But her nose was rather pointy, while Connie's was round like a button, and she had a trace of freckles along the bridge of her nose.

"Well I don't want it," Connie said. "Take it back."

"No," Mari said, taking a step back as he rolled into her room. "What are you doing? Get out."

"No," Connie said, his arms aching from the strain of pushing himself around everywhere. The lady at the clinic told him it'd get easier, but he thought she was lying. "Take it. I don't wanna look at it."

"Well, neither do I!" Mari shouted, her dark eyes flying wide. "It's— it's gross, okay, just get out of here!"

"What do you want me to do," Connie said thickly, his tiny fingers resting against the wheels of his chair. "Just throw it away?"

"_Yeah_, actually," Mari said, whirling away from him and flopping onto her bed. She shared a room with Eliza, so the area was very cramped, and there was very little space for Connie to maneuver his chair around. It was a problem, he noticed, that he would find everywhere. There were no wheelchair friendly places. Only haphazard attempts to be inclusive. "Chuck it. I don't want it, you don't want it— God, Connie, why did you even keep it in the first place?"

"I thought you'd want it back," Connie said, his voice rising in frustration. "Well, oops, then, sorry I tried to be nice!"

"Just get out," Mari said.

"Why are you being so weird?" Connie asked. His eyes were wide, and he watched his sister lay on her bed, her dark legs dangling off the sides, and her chin tilted toward the ceiling. "I'm not even bothering you."

"Yeah, you are," Mari said, bolting up straight. "'Cause you won't leave me alone. Just leave."

"Are you mad that I got blood and stuff on your shirt?" Connie asked. He saw his sister freeze, her eyebrows shooting upward and her mouth dropping open. She looked as though someone had slapped her hard across the cheek, and Connie kinda wished he'd done it himself, because she was being a terror to deal with today.

"Connie!" Mari shouted, as though he'd uttered some foul curse.

He sunk back into his chair, his eyes widening in disbelief. "_What_?" He rolled closer to her bed, and she jumped to her feet. "What is it? Why are you acting so stupid?"

"Get out," Mari said, her arm jutting out toward the door. "Jesus, Connie, you're so annoying!"

"And you're _stupid_!" Connie cried. He plucked the stained green sweater from his lap and hurled it as hard as he could at her. It landed on her head, and she cried out in alarm, stumbling backwards as she tore it from her face and shrieked, flicking it away from her as though it'd give her cooties. Connie tried to turn himself around, but he couldn't move the wheels right, and he looked up fearfully as Mari marched up to him, fury clear in her face as she grabbed hold of the handles of his wheelchair.

"I'm so sick of you," Mari hissed under her breath. Her voice was shaking as she jerked his chair forcefully, and he yelped, clutching the sides of it desperately. She moved him outside the door with too much of her strength, and he went sliding down the hall a few feet before being spilled out of his seat. She'd already slammed the door, and Connie's lip trembled pitifully as he rolled himself onto his stomach. After a few minutes of struggling, and listening to the quiet sound of sobbing from behind Marigold's door, his father found him on the floor.

"I fell off," Connie lied thickly, his throat aching from unshed tears.

Eliza and Mark were the only people in the house who didn't treat him any differently. Mark was only four, so he didn't really understand what was going on, but Connie noticed that he liked to spin the wheels on the wheelchair, so sometimes Connie would roll up to him and let the toddler make soft _vroom-vroom_ noises as he flicked at the wheels that were just about his size. Eliza was an equally good sport about it, taking to moving aside the furniture in the living room so she could push Connie around and around and around until they both got dizzy. Sometimes he'd let her climb on his lap, and he'd spin them both around until she was giggling hysterically, and declaring them adventurers, and it made Connie feel like maybe he could live with this after all, because it made Eliza happy, and that was something that didn't happen often.

The worst thing about it, though, was that Connie never saw Sasha anymore. Sometimes she'd show up at his house, claiming she'd snuck out and taken the path that he always took, but she couldn't do it often. Her father caught her almost every time, and she wasn't allowed to run from her house to his because it was too dangerous. They made the most of the time they had, but it was very little.

"Can I try?" Sasha asked one spring day. He'd grown used to the wheelchair, but he felt utterly powerless in it. And he missed running. He missed being invisible. He missed being able to move through his own house without everyone getting all antsy and worried, their expressions crumpling.

He was plucking dandelions from his front lawn, popping off their heads with his thumb. "What do you mean?" he asked, tossing aside the dewy, decapitated remains of the weed.

"Your chair," Sasha said. "Can I ride in it?"

"It's not a kiddy ride, Sasha," Connie said, grimacing at how eager she looked. "It's not fun."

"I don't wanna have _fun_," Sasha said, grabbing both his armrests and staring into his eyes with her great big brown ones. "I wanna know what it's like."

"Not fun," Connie said, smacking her cheek gently with the back of his hand so she'd back off.

"Well, _yeah_," Sasha groaned, throwing her head back. "Yeah, I know, but I wanna try. To see if I could do it. If, you know, our places were switched, and stuff."

"You're dumb," Connie informed her. He began to adjust his grip on the chair anyway. The thing about being wheelchair bound? Your upper body strength improves a lot. He easily pushed himself from the chair, and slid into the patch of dandelions.

"Nuh uh," Sasha said, tossing her body into the chair. "_You're _dumb."

"There is no way I'm dumber than you, it's not even possible," Connie declared, adjusting his legs in the grass so they didn't just sit awkwardly, uselessly…

"Too late, buddy boy." Sasha grinned, and she attempted to maneuver the chair out of the grass. "Crap, how does this thing work?"

"Figure it out yourself," Connie said, flopping onto his back in the soft, slightly overgrown grass. He closed his eyes as the wind whistled softly through the cluster of dandelions. He listened to Sasha grunt and hiss in irritation as she tried to push Connie's wheelchair onto the sidewalk. _This is nice_, Connie thought, blades of grass tickling his dark cheeks. If he lay there long enough, his entire body might fall numb, and then he wouldn't even notice that he couldn't move his legs. _It's dumb that it's not always like this_. Connie didn't like to complain about his disability. There was no point. There was no rectifying it. There was only acceptance, and he dealt with that with all the blissful ignorance of a nine year old.

Connie's eyes snapped open. The sound of grinding metal filled his ears, and he was unable to fully comprehend what that meant. Connie was a simple kid, he didn't need much to keep himself going. He didn't think anything could break him, because he was already broken, and he'd lost all sense of faith in the people around him and even himself. He'd gotten into the habit of not caring, not wanting to be cared for, and just relinquishing all his emotions to a grand abyss.

"Sasha?" Connie called. A bumblebee darted past overhead. Its buzzing left an echo in Connie's ears, and the wind rustled through the dandelions, and his heart thudded in his chest as he perched himself onto his elbows, his head lifting ever so slightly to the road that was only three yards away. Connie spotted his wheelchair, overturned on the sidewalk, one wheel still spinning, and the entire world screeched to a halt around him. "Sasha!"

He found himself on his stomach, his fingernails digging into the rain-softened dirt, pulling up grass by its roots as he dragged himself frantically, hopelessly toward the vacant wheelchair. He clawed and crawled, hefted his body forward and listening to his own ragged breath as he over-exerted himself, and by the time he pressed his blackened fingers to the glittering sidewalk, he was heaving and gasping and shaking so terribly that he thought he was gonna puke.

"Sa—" He pulled his body, all his weight, and he felt tears sting his eyes. "Sasha…!"

He yelped as Sasha jumped right over the overturned wheelchair, landing before Connie in a crouch, and grinning broadly down at him as she rested one arm on her bloody knee. It'd been skinned finely, and the front of her leg was streaked crimson and black.

"Boo!" she cried, throwing her head back and laughing. "Got you good, huh, Connie?"

He stared at her. He couldn't understand why she would do something so cruel to him. "What…?" Connie choked on his tears as they flooded his eyes, effectively blinding Sasha from him. "What the _heck_, Sasha?!"

"What…?" Sasha sounded so oblivious, and he wanted to smack her. "Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself, or somethin'? Should I go get your mom? Connie, look at me. Hey, Connie. Con. Conster. Conman…" Connie had folded his arms out in front of him, and buried his face in them. He was shaking so badly, and he wanted to scream at her for being so damn stupid, stupid fucking Sasha, and her stupid fucking jokes. "Connie, come on, please look at me and tell me you're okay. Connie." She poked his shoulder. "Hey." She prodded his arm. "Connie, Connie, Connie, Connie— Constantino, you big dummy, stop moping and look—" She shook him, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and rattling him desperately. "Connie!"

"Why…" Connie's shoulders hunched as he tried to hold the tears back. But he couldn't. "Why would you… I don't get it, why would you do that, why would you pretend to…?"

"It was just a joke, Connie…"

"It was terrible!" Connie's voice shook as tears glimmered onto his cheeks. "You're terrible! You… you…!"

"I'm sorry…" Sasha gasped, kneeling down in spite of her bloody knee. "I… I didn't mean to… I only wanted to make you laugh, that's all, Connie, please… please don't cry…"

Connie couldn't help it. He'd been trying so hard to keep himself together, but he didn't know how, he didn't understand, and it was unbearable. The world was unbearable. He was living in a world that was moving in fast forward, a breathless blur of color and sound, and he was stuck, trapped, and dying to get free just so he could run and join the rapid movement.

"Hey…" Sasha reached out, her fingers resting on his shoulders. He jerked away from her, smacking her arms away as he struggled to regain his breath. He looked up at her, all gangly limbs and scrapes and toothy smiles, and he just wanted her to look away for two damn seconds, just long enough for Connie to stop crying, because he felt like such a baby, and he couldn't stand that Sasha was tougher than him. "Can I… can I help you back up on your chair?"

Connie didn't trust himself to speak. He looked at her, and he shook his head furiously, wiping at his eyes with dirt caked fingers. Sasha looked at him disbelievingly, and she stood up, giving Connie a nice view of her bloody knee. As she attempted to straighten out the wheelchair, Connie heard the screen door slam from behind him.

"Connie?" It was Mari's voice that drifted from the porch, curious and cautious. At the sound of her voice Connie's eyes filled with fresh tears, and he wanted to scream and run around and kick something, anything, just to get the rage out, but he couldn't. "What…? Oh my god, Connie!"

Mari's frantic footsteps were enough for him to know that she was angry. She bent down beside him, grabbing him by the arms and lifting him up ever so slightly to look at his face. He twisted away from her, grimacing in frustration. "What're you doing?" Connie grumbled, swatting at his elder sister in hopes that she'd release him. "Lemme go."

"Connie, look at your hands…" Mari gasped, clutching his dirty, scraped up fingers very tightly. "What are you even doing out here by yourself? You know you're not allowed!"

"Shut up!" Connie yanked feebly at his arms, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had use of his legs. "Go away!"

Mari looked up, and she seemed to notice Sasha for the first time. Now, it wasn't the first time Sasha had visited, but it was the first time Mari had the chance to be alone with her. And there was clear disdain in Mari's eyes as she looked upon the amber-eyed girl. Connie twisted, and he fought, but Mari was stronger than him by a bunch, and he just couldn't slip her grasp.

"Um…" Sasha said with a weak smile. "Hi?" She pushed Connie's wheelchair toward Mari gently, and Mari stared at her for a long time. Then she plucked Connie from the ground like it was nothing, and no matter how much he screamed at her, she got him back upright in his chair. Sasha stood awkwardly behind it, kicking a rock around the sidewalk until and fell into the road. "Sorry, Marigold, but, y'know, me and Connie wanted to play, so—"

"Look, I don't really care," Mari said. She straightened up, and Connie sat in his chair and stared up at her with his face expressing all his shock and anger. Tears were still glistening on his cheeks.

"Mari!" Connie cried, his voice breaking miserably.

Mari ignored him, and she stepped behind his wheelchair and grasped the handles. As she began to push him, Sasha followed fast, all but bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Well, I just thought you oughta know, because it's not Connie's fault or anything, I just wanted to try out the chair—"

Mari stopped. Connie gripped the armrests of his wheelchair in absolute terror, and he felt his sister's rage as she whipped around to face Sasha. "Connie," she said. "Go inside."

"What?" Connie squeaked. "No way!"

"Just do it."

"No!" He wheeled his chair around so he was watching Mari, whose nostrils flared in frustration.

"Fine," Mari snapped at him. She turned her attention to Sasha, who merely stood on the sidewalk, looking a little bewildered. "You need to stop hanging around my brother, got it?"

"What?" Sasha stared at Mari, blinking rapidly. And then she burst into laughter. Connie merely sat, stunned and speechless. "Ha ha, wowie, Mar', that was pretty funny. Gosh, you're face is so serious and everything."

"Do honestly think I'm _joking_?" Mari's voice heightened so much in pitch that Connie winced. "Oh my god, are you dumb? Don't you get it? You're not helping! You just make everything so much worse, and— and—!" Mari huffed in exasperation, and she shook her head in utter incredulity. "Just stop, okay?"

"_You _stop!" Connie cried.

"Connie, didn't I say to go inside?"

"You can't tell me what to do," Connie said. "You're not any more grown up than me, you know, so you should stop actin' all high and mighty. And stop picking on Sasha!"

"I'm just telling her the truth," Marigold said coolly. Her dark face turned to Connie's, and she raised her chin high. "Mom and dad think so too. They say it's all her fault, you know, and they just don't want to tell you because the situation is _delicate_."

_I'm delicate, you mean_, Connie thought, his eyes widening in shock. He didn't dare look at Sasha. He couldn't handle her reaction right now. "Shut up."

"Is that all you can say?" Mari rounded on him, and Connie flinched. Immediately upon seeing Connie's face, Mari's harsh demeanor seemed to melt. "I don't want to talk about this to you, Connie. Please, just go inside."

"I'm not gonna let you talk to Sasha like that," Connie said, even though he'd been angry at his friend only five minutes previous. "It's not her fault. None of this has to do with her at all, just— why would you even…? Just shut up, Mari, you load of crap, you don't know _anything_, you—!"

"Connie…" Sasha said. Connie had to force himself to look at her. And for someone who had just been completely chewed out for things she wasn't remotely responsible for, she was doing pretty good. Or at least, at first glance. She smiled at him weakly. "It's okay. I need to head home anyways, so…" Sasha took a step back onto the road. "Bye, then, Connie. Bye, Mari."

Connie shouted after her as she ran off, and he sat in his wheelchair, completely struck to silence. Mari stared after Sasha, and she was frowning. She looked down at Connie with a sad, desperate gaze. "Connie…"

"Don't talk to me," Connie told her, wheeling himself around. "You're so stupid, and I hate you."

"What?" Mari sounded so shocked, and Connie glared ahead of him. "You're the stupid one, Connie!"

"I said don't talk to me!" Connie cried, wheeling himself up the ramp leading to his porch.

After that, it got harder and harder to reach Sasha. She didn't come over anymore. They barely even spoke, and Connie blamed stupid Marigold for being so stupid and nosy, like what a bitch. Connie was left to… well, nothing. He couldn't even stand to look at Mari, who was so self-righteous and stupid, and he didn't want to talk to his parents, who clearly had no understanding of him since they thought that _Sasha_ was the biggest problem in his life. Sasha! Literally the only person in the world who effortlessly got him, like no questions asked, just an easy friendship. Sure, they fought, because Sasha could be insensitive, and Connie could be a brat, but otherwise their friendship was absolutely flawless, and he didn't get why his parents would try to break that up. Why they were _succeeding_.

All he had now were Eliza and Mark, and even they got bored of him. Mark told him that his chair wasn't as fun as the spinny chair in daddy's office, and Eliza didn't want to sit on his lap anymore, she just wanted to play with her dolls. Connie was getting to the point where he didn't trust himself not to say awful things in front of his parents and older sister, so he just avoided them altogether.

One sunny day at the beginning of that summer, Connie decided that he wanted to figure something out. He couldn't run anymore. He couldn't ride a bike. But he could wheel himself pretty well. So, when nobody was keeping tabs on him one humid summer afternoon, Connie set off on the familiar path to Sasha's house. It'd been forever since he'd taken it, and at first he thought he completely forgot it, but eventually he got back into the groove of his surroundings. Not much had changed in a year, and he was pretty glad for that.

Half an hour into his amazing journey, Connie began to notice the clouds shifting over the sun. His arms had started cramping about a mile back, but he was still going, still carefully following the road, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He had a mantra he thought to himself every time a car whistled past_. No one will hit a boy in a wheelchair, no one will hit a boy in a wheelchair, no one will, no one will_…

It began raining after an hour. The tires of his wheels were too slick to grip properly, and his hands kept slipping, getting painfully caught between the armrest and the wheel. Connie was amazed. His luck. It was the shittiest. There was no doubt about it. He could not believe that the world had turned against him so viciously, so suddenly, so hopelessly.

The rain got heavier and heavier, and it got very hard to see. And Connie, who had gotten pretty good at wheeling himself around, caught another bout of misfortune by running over a particularly grand pothole that he hadn't seen due to the haze of rain, and the mist surrounding him. And, of course, his wheelchair spat him out like something nasty that just couldn't be washed down. Connie spilt out onto the ground, half in a puddle, half on the street, and he was at a loss now. Because he was an hour and a half away from home, without any means of contacting his family, with cramping arms and crippled legs, and nothing, nothing, nothing but rain and a mantra that didn't even apply, because he was certainly not in a wheelchair anymore.

It was a pitiful sight, a nine year old boy lying immobile in a great tarn of a puddle, his clothes soaking the water right up, and tears bleeding into rain as he began to sob softly, senselessly, choking on dirty rainwater and emptiness. Nothing, nothing, nothing. This was not what Connie wanted, and this was not what Connie had imagined for himself. He wanted to run races. He wanted to ride bikes. He wanted to get beaten up, but be able to fight back, because it was only fair, and he wanted to just be himself without any of this… this utter fucking bullshit that was his life.

He didn't know how long he laid on the side of the road. He could have tried to crawl back to his wheelchair, but he wouldn't be able to turn it upright. He knew that. He decided that it was easier to just curl up and cry than try to fix things. He was tired, and the world around him was too fast and too ugly for him to dare to look at.

Being found was a relief that he didn't remember all too well. Neither was being taken to the hospital. He must have passed out, because when he woke up, he was suddenly in a hospital bed, and it was much warmer, and he was wearing different clothes, and there was a stupid needle in his arm again. _Great,_ he thought, resting his head back against his pillow and frowning to himself. _What was I doing again…?_

A woman was standing at the foot of his bed. Connie stared at her, his eyes widening, and he looked around for a doctor, or for his mother, but no. It was just a woman. Not even a woman, really, she looked kinda young, like she was still in school, and shouldn't be working yet. She was skinny, with a pretty, round face and large brown eyes, and sun-kissed skin that glowed naturally without any help from the luminescent bulbs that hung overhead. She had a nose like a button, a bit like Connie's, and so many freckles that Connie found himself trying to count them. They clustered particularly around her nose and flush of her cheeks, but they were plentiful all across her skin in star-like patterns, splotchy and strangely perfect.

"Hello, Connie," the woman said gently. She was wearing that odd, papery blue color that Connie was very used to by now. So she had to be a nurse. "You just don't stop getting into trouble, huh?"

"Um…" Connie shifted uncomfortably beneath the scratchy hospital blanket. "I guess… Who are you?"

The woman blinked at him, and her smile widened. She tilted her head, and her short brown hair slid into her warm eyes. "You can call me Ilse," she said, resting her hands on the footboard of Connie's bed. "I'm here to make you better."

"I feel fine," Connie croaked. Ilse's eyebrows rose curiously, and he flushed. "Well, I mean, as fine as I can be. Um, Nurse Ilse, is my mom…?"

"She'll be here soon," she said soothingly. Connie slumped in his bed, and he felt his throat constrict painfully, because what he really needed right now was another good sob. "Your grandfather is here, though."

"My…?" Connie hadn't spoken to his grandfather in years. He knew that he was in the hospital, but Connie had never thought he'd end up in the same one as him. "Oh. Okay, then…"

Ilse smiled. She had an infectious smile, and Connie couldn't help but smile back, confused and cautious as he was. There was something weird about her. Something off, as if she was an image projected on a movie screen— too perfect and too serene, and yet, she was standing right in front of Connie without fail.

"If you don't mind me asking," she said softly, straightening up, "what exactly were you trying to accomplish?"

Connie bristled. "Well," he said, "I was trying to get to my friend's house. How was I supposed to know it'd rain?"

Ilse shrugged. She looked around the room, as though the off-white walls somehow interested her, as though she could be captivated by the simplest of surroundings, and Connie bit his lip miserably, trying very hard not to cry, because he didn't want the nurse to see him so upset. He wanted his mother, that was all, and this lady wasn't helping him any by just standing there.

"How old are you, Connie?" Ilse asked. Her chin was raised up, and her warm brown eyes were following the walls, as though she could see something in the pallor of the paint that Connie could not.

"Nine," he said. He plucked at the itchy blanket, scowling as strings of gray wool unraveled between his thumb and forefinger. "How old are _you_?"

Ilse looked at him suddenly, and he could tell that he'd surprised her. She laughed, her eyes brightening in a stunned, excited awe. "Oh," she said, running her fingers through her closely cropped hair. "That's a good question. How old do I look?"

Connie gave her a look, something like a sneer twisting on his lips as he glanced at her. "If I knew," he said irritably, "I wouldn't be asking."

"True," Ilse said. She smiled down at him, and Connie blinked rapidly. This nurse was _weird_. "But I'm really curious!" She flew out her arms and spun swiftly as though to give Connie a better look at her. "How old do I look?"

"Like… I dunno…?" Connie frowned as Ilse turned back to him, wide-eyed and curious, with freckles of youth dancing on her splotchy skin. "Nineteen…?"

"Oh?" Ilse pressed her hand to her cheek, her smile growing tight. "Not a bad guess. But no, not quite."

"Well, I don't know," he said stiffly. He flushed from embarrassment. He rested his head back, and stared up at the ceiling glumly. "You said my mom's coming, right…?"

"Don't worry," Ilse said gently. She strode over to his bedside, and he twisted his head to look up at her. "I'm going to give you something, alright? It might sting a bit." Connie blinked dazedly at the tiny bottle and syringe that had materialized in her bony, freckled hands. She watched him with a smile as she drained the bottle of its colorless liquid by plunging the syringe into its lid. "I'm impressed, you know. You have a lot of determination, in spite of everything that's happened to you. I think you're a lot stronger than everyone else around here thinks."

Connie perked up a little at the praise, and he stared up at the nurse with widening eyes. "Really?" he blurted, straightening up. His arm ached mildly from the needle, but he ignored it. "You think so?"

"Of course!" Ilse beamed down at him, testing the syringe momentarily, and beginning to babble senselessly, her voice very soft and very strained, as though she was holding something crucial back, like a rasp or a lisp or a completely different tone all together, like she was forcing herself to speak this way so not to scare him, but it only made her appear less and less real to Connie, who couldn't help but wonder if he was simply imagining the nurse. "I've always admired people who make up for their physical lack of strength through their perseverance. I think it's because I was very focused on being strong when I was younger, but I was never really strong enough, and that came back to haunt me a little." She took hold of his intravenous drip, but he did not notice. He was completely enthralled in what she was saying, though he couldn't say why. "I should tell you this now, Connie, that though you're very strong, and you're very stubborn, you shouldn't put yourself in situations where it's inevitable for you to lose. You have nothing left to prove, so please don't act so reckless. Especially now."

Connie wasn't sure what she meant. _Especially now_, Connie thought, _because I'm handicapped?_ He blinked as he saw her turn away, empty syringe in hand. He hadn't even noticed she'd injected him, honestly, and now that he thought about it, his arm was beginning to sear a bit around the area where the IV was stuck inside his dermis. He gave an audible hiss, and squirmed a little in his dumb cot of a bed, that supported his back but never allowed him any real rest, and he looked up at Ilse with wide eyes.

"W-what medicine is this?" he stammered, his tiny fingers resting on his steadily throbbing forearm, and then fisting at the blankets around him. Ilse stood with her back to him, her head bowed, and Connie stared at her, and he kept staring until tears gathered in his eyes, obscuring her skinny frame from his sight. His entire arm was trembling, throbbing, taking in pain without any consideration for his poor nerves, his poor, blazing nervous system that felt electrified very suddenly. Tears poured over his cheeks, but he could not feel them. He could only feel fire, and lightning, and the shock of a distant car colliding with his scrawny body, and he couldn't hold back the breathless, tearful, agonized scream that ripped heavily from his throat and echoed through the vacant room as his skin tore apart and knitted back together, his bones snapping and stretching and burning and charring up and smoldering in a heap before reassembling and sparking up once again, a chain of chemical reactions rapidly performed and unraveling and redone in a cyclical motion of a god's precious hand stitching him from life to death to life to death to a divine in-between to a lifeless, hopeless, heartless nothing, to a critical mass of writhing, screeching, unbearable pain.

The doctors had come swarming in, and they were all talking, and Ilse was just standing there, holding her syringe with both hands and never looking straight at Connie, though he could sense her there, sense her unnerving presence in the flaky stream of colors and bright movements that was the flame-encompassed world around him.

His teeth cracked together, his heart speeding too fast, too fast, too fast, _way too fast, slow down, Connie, slow down, slow down, slow down, or you'll kill yourself, Connie, slow down, slow down, just try to slow down, just kick the brakes, it's fine, it's fine, everything is fine, I'm fine, it's fine, please, slow down, or else you'll kill me, and I don't wanna die, not this fast, so please somebody just __**slow it all down**_…

So. A nine-year-old boy lies in a hospital bed. He flatlines.

And there is an amazing, breathless moment of silence that comes with that awful fact, like the beauty of lightning dancing through the sky, and all the knowledge of its deadly nature, but wanting to touch it somehow anyway— to reach up, and graze your fingers across the fissures of luminosity, shadowing the crags in the clouds, and take a prong to heart.

In a way, Connie did.

He bolted upright, his heart thundering back into life from a beautiful, terrible shock.

The chattering of doctors was nothing but a dull thrum of voices, too low and too slow for him to comprehend. Everything was going slow, all the arms moving around him, supporting him as he sucked greedily at the air, tear tracks licking his cheeks, and he stared straight ahead of him as Ilse stood at his headboard, smiling at him sadly. No one was even sparing her a glance. She, who had done this to him, she who had nearly killed him—!

"I'm sorry," Ilse said in her honey-like voice, with her warm eyes glowing with sympathy, and her skinny, freckled fingers touched her neck, which was darkened by a shadow of a ring, angry, madder, madder red. Connie wanted to lunge at her, to yell and thrash and cry until something made some sense. "I'm so sorry for everything, Connie. I'm so sorry…"

_I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, so sorry for everything_…

And, just like the enigmatic driver that had shattered Connie's life a year before, Ilse then disappeared without warning. And Connie was left numb and breathless, trying to understand what had just transpired, because he couldn't have really just died, right? There was no way.

He struggled to speak for a few minutes, but when he did, he caught one of the doctor's by the sleeve, and he stare up into her eyes and croaked, "Where did she go?"

"What?" The doctor blinked down at him in surprise. "Who?"

"The nurse," he whispered, his tongue heavy and his throat dry and his eyes watering. "Ilse. The one who was in here just… just before…"

"There was no one in here, honey," the doctor said carefully, studying Connie with the same pitying gaze he had grown so used to over the past year.

"Wha…?" Connie's head was spinning. "N-no way. No, she was here. She was definitely here, she was in the room when—"

The look on the doctor's face caused Connie to cut himself off. _She doesn't believe me_, Connie thought, stunned. _Either that, or Ilse wasn't_… And as Connie tried to recall Ilse's face, the image became fuzzy and dull. And in the end, he had almost convinced himself that she hadn't been there. When his mother came, squishing him into a hug and chewing him out for being so stupid, Connie just accepted what the doctors told his mother, that the stress from pushing his wheelchair for miles had done a job on his heart.

Connie was a little numb all over, and so he was oblivious to the itch in his toes. He was so oblivious, in fact, that he did not notice until he awoke in the middle of the night, regaining the majority of his senses after some time to heal from whatever had attacked his nervous system earlier in the day. He was sorta like, a hundred and ten percent done with everything ever, and at that point he just wanted a good night's sleep. His mother was sleeping in the chair beside his bed, and he listened to her snoring softly. The sounds were long and slow, rumbling in the vacuous silence.

Connie grimaced, and he wiggled his toes as he curled onto his side, bringing his blanket up over his head. _I wonder if Sasha knows yet_, Connie thought idly as he closed his eyes.

They snapped open in shock.

He flipped onto his back and tore his blanket away, dropping it in alarm as he stared at his bent legs, his cramping knees, and his wiggling toes. Connie's mouth dropped open, his stomach lurching with unbridled excitement as he slowly, carefully pulled one leg up off the bed. It moved. It hovered in midair shakily, painfully, and Connie laughed in agonized amazement, in absolute terror and disbelief and utter joy. And then, he was struck by a sudden, furious urge that could not be ignored.

As his mother slept in the chair beside him, Connie flung his newly mobile legs over the side of the bed. He stood up on buckling knees, his laughter bubbling inside his chest as his baggy sweatpants pooled around his bouncing feet, and he felt incredible, and he felt renewed, like he'd had the life breathed back into him, and suddenly he could fly if he wanted to, because his legs were moving, his tendons were bending, and he was standing. He took a step, and he was walking.

Butterflies were batting at his innards, beating themselves to death against the walls of his churning stomach, and he felt their wings bend and crack, and despite that not even their beauty could be crippled. Connie was grinned almost madly in the darkness, and he stared down at the tube stuck to his arm. He laughed aloud, and tore the needle right out. He didn't care. He didn't care at all, and it was amazing, and he felt so, so amazing. He couldn't fight the urge anymore, the itch that had plagued him for months and months and months— a year of immobility to balance out a lifetime of ceaseless movement.

As his mother woke up with an agonizing slowness to her actions, Connie couldn't even look at her. He couldn't even care. He was too busy feeling the cold linoleum beneath his bare, wiggling toes, and laughing with incredible, breathless euphoria. He didn't hear her speak, because it was too slow for him— the world was too slow, and too beautiful to be real, and he was laughing and bouncing and spinning fast, his body a blur in the shadows, and then he realized that there was nothing tethering him to that fucking bed, and nothing grounding him any longer.

And suddenly he was giving into the urge, and he was running.

He didn't stop for a long time. Because he didn't have to. He was just a blur in the darkness, a laughing, streaking, screaming blur of pure elation flashing through the darkened Oregon streets, and he bent his knees and jumped and kicked up dirt and twirled and twirled until he was something like a tornado funnel, and he laughed at that too, unable to contain himself because he was free, and the world was not, and that made him so inexplicably happy. He felt as though he'd been unshackled, and the earth had frozen upon his release.

The adrenaline didn't wear off, not even when he reached Sasha's house. He threw rock upon rock at her window until she appeared, and she stared at him, and she laughed so hard he thought she was gonna fall right out. And then, she seemed to realize that he was standing, that he was barefoot and standing right outside, and she shrieked with excitement.

"Connie!" she screamed, all but hanging out her window. "Connie, your legs!"

It felt like she was speaking in slow motion, and Connie didn't even care. "I know!" he cried, jumping up in down in the soft, freshly trimmed grass. "I know, I _know_!"

She ended up leaving her room and exiting her house in such a way that immediately upon the slamming of her front door, it was as though all the lights in the house had turned on. But neither Sasha nor Connie cared, because they were both shrieking with delight as she tried to tackle him to the ground, but she was just too slow for him, and suddenly they were chasing each other, kicking and laughing and running, without even daring question the miracle they'd been given.

* * *

_LAUGHS. Wow, all of the comments I got for last chapter were like, "CONNIE AND SASHA! YES, HUMOR AND FUN!" and I just laughed really nervously because this is a really fucking sad chapter. The next one is funny, and it goes back to the main plot, but I felt like Connie's story wasn't something that I could glaze over. It felt important. _

_Sasha and Connie are just so important, always, even if they're not always plot relevant. They deserve so much more than what they get. _


	11. fortune favors the bold

_**fortes fortuna adiuvat**_

**Chicago, Illinois **

_a.d. Kalendas Octobres, 2766 A.U.C._

The easiest way to get through teenage vigilantism was to do one thing. Tell your parents. Sasha and Connie had realized that when they had first begun their stint in heroism. Connie had a better reason to do it than she did— he actually had a superpower now, and that was pretty hard to explain to the family at any rate. Sasha had basically just avoided telling her parents that she sometimes fought crime with Connie until they figured it out, and her father ended up funding her crusade by investing in trick arrows for her.

They didn't get that much attention, so it was mostly just something they did in their spare time with a small budget. Connie wore a neon green morph-suit half the time, when he decided he didn't want to be stealthy. Sasha stuck with a sleeveless green hoodie that cut off at around her midriff, and under that she wore whatever shirt she had on that day. On the first of October, it was a black and white polka-dotted blouse.

"_There is no way in any universe that an archer could beat a speedster_," Connie was saying. Sasha had left her phone on speaker while she got dressed, tilting her chin up and studying her polka-dotted blouse pensively. Nowadays her first thoughts when picking out an outfit were_, Okay, but how upset will I be if I get blood on this?_ Usually that gave her a good reason to not dress up. "_Check it, Sash', you're powerless, and you're limited on ammo. I've got nothing holding me back_."

"Hmm," Sasha said thoughtfully, scooping up her thick brown hair in one fist. "Nothing 'cept your ego, anyway."

"_Sasha_!" Connie cried from her phone. "_This is serious! Real, serious talk_!"

"I'm completely serious." Sasha grinned at her mirror, twirling her hair into a thick, messy bun. Loose strands drifted around her cheeks and twisted around her ears. "Hawkeye could beat Speed up."

"_Wait_," Connie said, with his voice drawn out into a soft whine, "_which Hawkeye are we talking about_?"

"Kate Bishop," Sasha said, rolling her eyes as she began tossing her things into her bookbag. Math notebook, pencil case, lip-gloss, taser, Spanish folder, jackknife kit, a package of gum, and a pair of sneakers. "Duh. I mean, Clint Barton is a grown-ass man, so if I was talking about him—"

"_You'd go for Quicksilver instead of Speed_," Connie sighed. "_I get it_."

"Right!" Sasha zipped up her bag, and tossed a strap over her shoulder.

"_Didn't Kate Bishop and Speed have a thing_?"

"I dunno, Connie," Sasha said, scooping up her phone. "You're the comic expert here."

"_The only comic book I know extensively is Blue Beetle— Jaime Reyes's run, I mean, not the other guy_."

"The poor other guy," she lamented dryly "It's weird that your favorite superhero isn't even a speedster."

"_Blue Beetle is magic, Sasha_," Connie said breathlessly, and she laughed very loudly as she started from her room. "_And also, you just don't get many Latino superheroes, especially not at the quality of Jaime Reyes. You can borrow some of my comics, you know_."

"I'll pass," Sasha yawned. "Reading makes me hungry."

"Everything _makes you hungry_…"

"Well," Sasha laughed, passing by her father as she tried to get to the stove to retrieve a fistful of bacon. She turned toward the television as she began to munch eagerly, ducking her father's arm when he tried to pat her on the head. "That's true…" On the television, there was some weird shot of a pretty mangled street, like something straight out of an apocalypse movie. And then she read the caption beneath it.

"Um, Connie," Sasha said. "You watchin' the news?"

"_Nope_," Connie said. "_I'm still in my pajamas. Why_?"

"Chicago's getting beaten to shit by a bunch of giant robots," Sasha said, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bacon. She whirled around to face her father. "Hey, daddy—"

"No crime fighting before school," her mother said suddenly from the table.

"Um, your name is not daddy," Sasha said, not even bothering to glance at her mother, because there was no winning with her. Connie snickered from the phone receiver. "Daddy, can Connie and I go to Chicago?"

"You're kidding," her mother said flatly.

Her father merely looked at her. Connie was quiet from the phone, and she could assume that he was already dressed and on his way. He had that much mastery over his super speed. "I don't suppose it'd do any harm," her father said slowly, his mustache stretching as he frowned.

"Sasha," her mother said. She was glancing between her daughter and the television, her lined face growing slightly distraught. "You'll miss school. And possibly get killed."

"Have you seen this girl shoot?" her father scoffed. "She'll be fine."

"Yeah!" Sasha chirped through a mouthful of bacon. "I'll be fine!"

"_School,_ Sasha," her mother sighed.

"It's not like it's _going_ anywhere!" Sasha cried, exasperated and irritated. Her mother was more or less okay with Sasha being a hero— called Freeshooter, actually, which was really cool, and she enjoyed it. But sometimes her mother just got really weird about it.

"Refrain from yelling at your mother," her father warned.

Sasha slumped in defeat, and nodded glumly. She popped her last piece of bacon between her teeth, wiping her fingers off on her jeans and unzipping her backpack. She was pretty much used to all this hero nonsense by now. She lived and breathed it, but her parents were a little reluctant to allow her to run around all across the country, fighting crime and risking her life. They allowed her a lot of freedom, though, which was a little astonishing all things considering, but they were pretty clear that this couldn't rule her life.

She was pulling her green, hooded cut off when Connie appeared very suddenly in her kitchen with nothing but a gust of wind as a forewarning. Sasha swallowed her bacon and kicked off her flats, swapping them for the pair of sneakers she'd stashed in her backpack, while Connie greeted her parents enthusiastically. By this point, no one was surprised with Connie's super speed. In fact, it could get kinda annoying. He never knocked anymore. He just showed up in a burst of speed, energy and wind pulsating around him, and Sasha felt the need to smack him every time.

"So," Connie said, wearing a gaudy green morph-suit, the kind that would cause him to be invisible in front of a green screen. His face was visible, though, and the head portion of the suit was gathered around his neck. He was also wearing a pair of black mesh shorts and sneakers over the skin-tight material. "Chicago. Giant robots. How game are you, Sash', because I'm up to whoopin' your—"

"Oh shut up, Connie," she said, catching her quiver as her father tossed it to her over the table. It was hanging near the back door, and her compactable bow was attached to it. "Just worry about whether or not you're strong enough to carry me all the way there."

"Please," Connie scoffed. "I can get us both there and back in an hour, easy."

"You willing to put money on that, boy?" Sasha's father asked, his lips quirking into a smile. Sasha giggled at the look that crossed Connie's face. She knew he'd learned by now to never gamble with her father, so this was pretty priceless.

"Um, no, sir," Connie squeaked. Sasha shoved her pack with all their emergency supplies— first aid, water, snacks— at him, and she strapped her holster to her waist. She couldn't imagine not having a contingency plan in case she ran out of arrows— it'd never happened, but she kept at least two or three additional guns on her, and an assortment of knives hidden in various places upon her person.

"Come _on_," Connie whined, bouncing so fast that he was basically vibrating in place, his tiny body a vague outline in against the wooden paneling of her kitchen. "You're so slow!"

"Mhm," Sasha hummed. "Not true, but okay." She tossed up her hood, and spun away from Connie, swooping down to kiss her father on the cheek. "Bye, daddy!"

"Be careful," her mother said. "And though I do not condone this whatsoever, I'd appreciate it if you were home for dinner."

"Yeah, yeah." Sasha waved at her offhandedly, and she hopped onto Connie's back. "Duh."

They had been fighting crime on and off for about… what, four years? Something like that. They had nothing better to do, and the thing was that they were kinda extraordinary. In their own dumb, oddball way. So they fought crime when they could, when they had the opportunity, or maybe they just sought it out to get a kick. They felt responsible for everything while living lives that allowed them to wash their hands of all responsibility. There were no repercussions to being a superhero. Only fun.

It took Connie a little over an hour to get to Chicago, but Sasha excused that because he had to carry her as well as some heavy equipment. She was totally used to the whole super-speed thing after five years, though it was a little bit asphyxiating, and blinding, and nauseating, and Connie had to pull over like, twice to allow Sasha to throw up, but yeah, whatever, she was totally used to it. Totally.

"Holy fuck," Connie blurted, dropping her on her ass in the midst of a busted, blazing Chicago street. There was an overturned car wheezing with breathless, hazy gasps as it was engulfed in flames. "Did you know it was this bad?"

"I saw this on TV for like, a minute, Frick." Sasha and Connie had come up with monikers one dull Saturday night after marathoning some old _Justice League: Unlimited_ episodes, and while she'd gotten Freeshooter, Connie had come up with _Friction_. He was totally a dork about it, too, and she'd forbidden him from coining the catchphrase, "What the frick?"

"Yeah, well, I ran half-way across the country on an empty stomach, so can I have some refuel?" Connie reached into the pack slung over his shoulder, and retrieved a chocolate bar. Sasha stared at it, and she felt a shudder of nausea as a side effect of latching onto Connie as he ran at the speed of sound. She was pretty sure science had just dropped the ball when it came to Connie, because she had no idea how she survived these crazy trips.

"Anyway," Connie said through a mouthful of chocolate, "I figure we could split the robots, maybe, since you've got all the explosives, and I've got all the speed— you got any self-detonating shit on you, by any chance?"

"I've got a grenade," Sasha said, snatching the piece of chocolate he offered out greedily. "But she's a special gal, and I don't think I can part with her."

"Not even for giant robots?" Connie asked, his voice rising in absolute disbelief.

"She's special!"

"You're crazy," Connie said, rolling his eyes as he scratched the stubble on his scalp. "Kay, fine, just use your arrows. Get up on top of a real tall building, and I'll distract 'em all, and then give you a signal to shoot."

"Sounds good," Sasha said, yanking her compactable bow and shaking it until it unfolded in her hand, springing into its delicately, lethally curved shape. "Don't get squished, Constantino."

"Shove an arrow up your vagina, Sash'," Connie snapped at her as she strolled with a certain degree of whimsy down the cracked, crumbling, candle wax streets, which melted and froze and melted and froze with every little skip and laugh and vulgarity that sprung from her at that moment. Connie never used to be so sensitive about his name, but she had to suppose he just got sick of her making fun of him for it.

Anyways, she found a good, sturdy fire escape, and she climbed onto it with little effort. She'd been doing this for years. Sasha was a _pro_, okay, she could jump fire escapes in her sleep if she had to. She listened to the sound of her sneakers as they collided with the rusted, dented metal, and smoke filled her mouth as she rose above the city's skyline, looking out into the fire and destruction that plagued Chicago's cityscape. She had to check to make sure her gear was all on right, and as she did, sitting down on the ledge of the building she'd just climbed, she heard someone clear his throat.

She blinked for a moment, and looked up. There were two guys standing right there, right in front of her, wearing kevlar and elbow pads, and Sasha just stared at them for a moment before bursting into laughter. Oh, vigilantism was so amazing! "No way!" she gasped, throwing her head back and cackling.

"Are you okay?" asked one of the boys carefully. He was holding a baseball bat with the type of support an old man would put on a cane.

"Yeah, yeah," she laughed, wiping her eyes, and whistling brightly. "Wow, I'm fine, I just can't believe…" She knew there were other superheroes in the world, but dumb vigilantes like her? They didn't pop up very often.

"Is that a fucking bow?" the other boy asked, sounding alarmed, and incredibly curious. "Like, Katniss Everdeen level shit?"

"I'm way better than Katniss," Sasha declared, blowing a piece of hair from her eyes. "But yeah, basically. What're you two doing up here?" She marched toward them, and eyed their belts, looking for loose candy bars that might happen to poke out of pockets. Connie had taken the pack with all the food in it, the piece of shit. "Got any food?"

"Um, no," said the scrawny, condescending one, taking a step back from her in mild irritation. "We don't. Who the fuck are you?"

"Freeshooter," Sasha chirped. "Who the fuck are you?"

The boy eyed her distrustfully, his shoulders squaring as the boy with the bat responded for him with a gentle smile. He, like Sasha, had his eyes bare with only a hood to shadow them. He had a warm face, freckles dancing in the brilliant morning sunlight, and his eyes reflecting all the sunlight with some strange, hopeful glimmer.

"This is Ricochet," said the boy. "And I'm… San. You can call me San."

"Cool," Sasha said. At that point, distant shouts were drifting from the street below, smoke and dust coughing up from the poor, pulverized road as a giant robot came sailing through the air and attaching itself to the tall glass building right across from the one Sasha, Ricochet, and San were standing on. It tilted its massive, demonic metal head toward them, and Sasha blinked rapidly as its gleaming eyes adjusted to lock on her. Big, and black, and glowing with embers that were flickering and fluttering rapidly around its gleaming face. Sasha took a step back in shock, her stomach lurching with fear. It was looking at her with the kind of intelligence of a wolf in a trap, the same pleading gaze of a dying, whining animal ready to snap and gnaw at anything and everything in order to get free or die trying.

"U-um…" Sasha stammered, taking another step back. The robot opened its giant maw, and fire poured from its razorblade teeth, gapped and knife-like, protruding from expertly formed steel lips. "Th-that robot is looking right at me, guys."

"No," said a tiny, vacant voice that drifted up from right beside Sasha. Sasha looked down, and squeaked in surprise when she saw that there was a girl standing right behind her, small and skinny and blonde, her round face lifted to stare at the monstrosity that clung to the slowly crumbling skyscraper just across the road. "She's looking at me."

"What?" Sasha said flatly. "Um, where did you come from?"

"She was here the whole time," San said softly.

Sasha could not tear her eyes away from the robot, so she just nodded in disbelief. "Okay, fine," she said. "Why is the robot looking at you, then?"

"I…" The tiny girl, who was wearing a dark cloak that covered the entirety of her skinny frame, looked away nervously. "Oh, I don't… I just _know_. I can tell she's looking at me, and… I think… she's alive."

"That robot?" Sasha uttered feebly. "Alive?"

"It's such a weak aura," the tiny girl murmured, closing her eyes and shaking her head furiously. Her blonde hair shuddered around her rosy cheeks, and her lips trembled a little. "I don't know how to _explain_ it properly. There is definitely life somewhere in there, but it's not… right. It's human, but it's… it's…"

"It's _human_?" Sasha choked.

The girl looked up at Sasha sharply, and she quickly laughed, throwing up her hands in a strange form of defeat. "Oh," said the girl, "I don't know, really, don't listen to me."

Sasha stood, stunned for a moment, but there was no time to dwell on the strange girl's words. The world seemed to be coming to an end all around them, crashing apart as the robot was attacked by a girl who came flying through the air as though someone had tossed her, her body curling as she kicked off the leg of the beastly robot, and tore at it with her bare hands. Sasha could hear the metal bend against her fingers, the soft screech of steel echoing across the cacophony of terror all around them.

"Whoa," Sasha murmured. She recognized the girl by her mask, which was something out of Buddhism that Sasha didn't really know. She knew that Chicago had its own heroes, and she was awed to see one up close, see the girl work at scaling the twitching, flailing, screeching beast that clicked and snarled, fire brimming from its steely lips as the girl tore a gap out of its kicking leg.

"Whoa," agreed Ricochet, staring at the girl with his mouth parted in awe. The robot began to wail, and it shook the girl off with a burst of fury. The girl went flying through the air, her body curling expertly, and Sasha cried out as she came rolling onto their roof without a hint of pain, without faltering, without even thinking, and she jumped to her feet. She was wearing a plaid uniform skirt, which was now slightly singed. There was smoke billowing from its darkened hem as she patted it out.

"That," Sasha said as the girl glanced at her through the heavy brow of her mask, "was _amazing_!"

The girl eyed her without a word, and then she spun around, the billowing fabric of her singed skirt catching in the wind. Her short, choppy black hair was twisting about her head, wayward and curling across the ebony and ivory of her intricately carved mask. And she dusted off her knuckles as she tucked her legs, her body curling with the anticipation of a mighty and impossible jump.

"Wait!" Ricochet cried. The girl froze. Her muscles were suddenly locked, and Sasha knew from her rigidness that she could never push off the ledge of the building now, not with her body so tight and stanch and suddenly enraged. She whirled to face Ricochet with her eyes flashing with the light of the sun and the light of the fire that had half-consumed the road below. Ricochet seemed to backtrack at the sight of her. "U-uh… hey…"

She said nothing. She simply stared.

"Aren't you Nio?" the little blonde girl asked suddenly, awed and excited. Nio. Right, that was the girl's moniker, right?

The girl nodded slowly, her mask bobbing against the smoke and the dust. Sasha glanced down the road, and spotted a giant naked man. _Hey_, she thought. _Wait, isn't that Rogue?_ She couldn't believe it. All these heroes in one place! It was so weird, because she'd never really entertained the thought of actually meeting other heroes before. It had always been just her and Connie.

"Nio," San said softly. Nio turned to him, and Sasha could sense pain in her eyes as they flickered between both boys. "Hey. You know who we are, right?"

"Dude," Ricochet hissed.

"Listen, it's no use hiding that we know," San sighed, shaking his head as he rested his bat against his shoulder. He lifted his head up, and he smiled at Nio. "Welcome back."

Nio stiffened, and she took a step back, her shiny black shoes scuffing against the ash-caked rooftop. "What are you doing?" she asked, finally speaking. Her voice was clipped and emotionless.

"Same as you," Ricochet said. He stood awkwardly, his head turned away so he didn't have to look at Nio directly. "You inspired us."

"I told you," the girl said, her voice going very dark. "I told you what I thought of vigilantism. I told you it was stupid, and you still did it. You're both idiots."

"You didn't actually mean any of that," Ricochet said slowly, his goggled eyes flickering to Nio's face, "did you?"

"I meant every word," she said icily.

"But you—" Ricochet sounded absolutely horrified, and San pressed a hand to his shoulder. As the freckled boy shook his head, Nio spun around.

"I meant it," said Nio, "I meant every word, because I don't think I'm doing any good. I'm not a hero. I'm strong. That's all I am, but it's just enough to keep me alive while I waste my life away being something that doesn't exist." She jumped up onto the raised edge of the building, and she raised her head high. "There are no heroes in this world."

She dove then, and the blonde girl beside Sasha gave a little shriek of objection, and Ricochet cried something against the wind, but the girl was gone. Sasha ran to the ledge and peered down, but Nio had not ended up a red, mangled splotch on the side of the road. She was running down the street, meeting up with a blond guy and pointing toward the fire robot.

"Holy shit," Sasha breathed. "That girl's got issues."

"Is she…?"

"Yeah, she's fine," Sasha said, whirling to face Ricochet and San. Ricochet looked ready to puke, while San was looking ready to faint. And the blonde girl was blinking between all of them, looking awkward and uncertain and out of place. "Anyone got any idea what's going on besides the whacky humans-are-robots thing?"

The blonde girl shrunk back, and Ricochet merely shrugged. San stood there. And Sasha sighed, because these people were clearly useless. "Okay," Sasha sighed. "Whatever. I'll figure it out." She glanced back down at the road, and saw Rogue standing not too far below, just a building or so away. He was boxing another robot. _That is the coolest thing I have ever seen_, Sasha thought as Rogue went through a wall of glass, taking out a massive chunk of the building right beside the one Sasha was standing on.

"They have a weak spot," said the little blonde girl suddenly. Sasha glanced at her. She was standing with her hands gathering a fist full of her dark cloak, wrapping it tighter around herself. "The back of their necks. If you hit them there, I think they'll shut down."

"Whoa, wait," Sasha said, blinking down at the girl. "Really?"

"Yes," the girl said. "I can tell that, at the very least."

"You're awesome," Sasha gasped, nearly grabbing the tiny girl to hug her. But Sasha had her bow in hand, and they were standing very close to the ledge of a very tall skyscraper. The girl smiled.

"I'm Vitae," she said, her voice shaky. "Um, it's not my name, but… oh!" The girl grabbed Sasha by the arm, and pointed below. A robot had gotten hold of a boy, a tiny looking thing with a white cloak, and Sasha could see its, metal fingers close tighter and tighter. "Oh my gosh, can you… can you do something?"

"Uh, yeah," Sasha said, yanking an arrow from her quiver. "Not a problem."

Sasha notched her arrow and brought the string taut, angling just right so it'd clip the fingers of the robot clutching the boy in white. She could see its fingers beginning to frost over, and the boy began to squirm. Sasha exhaled sharply, and she released the arrow, grinning with satisfaction as she hit the target with ease. Upon the arrow's impact, the boy was dropped, and Sasha listened with her expression slipping as he screamed. Vitae screamed beside her, clapping her hands over her mouth.

"Hey," Sasha gasped, halting the girl from moving any closer to the ledge. "Don't worry. My boy's got this."

Connie was already skidding through the streets, maneuvering through the cracks and the robots and the overturned cars— a streak of neon green in a smoky, grayscale world. And he caught the falling boy with great ease. Sasha grinned, and she began to follow the path she knew he'd take before his blur of a body pivoted. She tugged a grappling arrow from her quiver and notched it.

"Hey, fellas," Sasha said, never looking at the duo. "Let's have some fun!"

She released the arrow, and it colliding with the building beside them, a long cable connecting Sasha to the shattered, vaguely unstable structure. And she let herself swing from it, shrieking in delight as she was met with open air, her feet kicking wildly against the wind. She landed on the shoulder of Rogue, her feet slipping momentarily as she buckled, and she caught onto his twisted brown hair. He glanced at her, and she could almost see him frowning. She poked his cheek gently with her bow.

"Holy crap!" she cried, standing a little wobbly on her feet. "You're Rogue!"

The monster-boy grunted in reply. She could feel that grunt through her feet, vibrating through her knees and up into her chest and rattling her entire body. She cried out in alarm as he plucked her up by her hood. "Hey!" Sasha cried. "No, no! Put me down! I can help!"

He grunted again, this time louder, with irritation rattling through the miasma cloaking the morning air. The robot he'd been fighting was watching with vague interest, and it was creeping Sasha out. She dangled in midair, her feet kicking wildly at nothing, and she cursed very loudly as Rogue set her down on the sidewalk beside Connie. He was laughing at her, his head flung back. And the boy in white was simply standing beside him, looking a little shell-shocked and dazed.

"What a nasty piece of work," Sasha muttered as the giant man went at the giant robot again.

And Connie just laughed. They ducked as a shower of glass came raining from the sky where the robot and Rogue collided with another building, and Sasha and Connie both shielded the boy in white, much to his alarm. His glasses were askew as they dragged him into an alleyway by his arms, glancing back at the giants that were causing so much destruction to downtown Chicago.

"Are you okay, buddy?" Sasha asked the blond boy. He blinked at her with faintly glistening eyes, and he nodded mutely. His face was rather sallow, and his eyes were sunken in his skull, and he suddenly looked very skeletal and frail, like a child who was underfed and neglected. His blond hair was bobbing in a tiny ponytail at the nape of his neck as he tore away from them, struggling to stay on his feet.

"I'm…" he said, his voice trembling. He was shaking terribly, and he squeezed his eyes shut, swaying back and forth, back and forth, his quaking fingers pressing to his sweaty forehead. "F-fine…"

"Go on and puke," Sasha said gently. "I always do when Friction runs with me."

The boy shook his head, taking a tiny step forward, his boots scraping against pebbles and cracks in the pavement. "No," he murmured, still holding and shaking his head. "No, I—" He dropped to his knees, and Sasha stared as his hands clapped against the shattered street, and he heaved and coughed, his back arching and bile spewing from his lips. He shook and gasped, expelling whatever was in his stomach, and Connie grimaced beside Sasha, his gaze averting as Sasha contemplated comforting the poor boy.

"Is he okay?"

Sasha whirled around, and saw Vitae standing in the entrance of the alleyway, her watery blue eyes flashing between Connie and Sasha and the boy vomiting into the busted asphalt. San was standing behind her, eying them with a worried frown. Vitae came running up beside Sasha, her cloak fluttering back from her shoulders, and Sasha wanted to laugh as she noticed that the girl was wearing a pair of very baggy jeans that were cuffed and rolled so many times that they barely retained their original shape. She was also wearing a very long tee shirt that had been rolled a few times at the sleeves, and the bright, bulky letters that ran boldly across its front read, **TAKE A HIT**.

"He'll be fine," Sasha said, tugging her hood back over her head. It wilted miserably around her scraggly hair, and she blew her bangs from her eyes. "It's just the speed that got to him. Co— Friction doesn't really know how to not jostle around precious cargo when he runs."

Vitae bent down beside the softly heaving boy, and she rested her hand his back. He flinched away from her, falling backwards onto his elbows, and Sasha saw, alarmed, that there were tear tracks glistening on his cheeks. The run with Connie was certainly nauseating, but Sasha had never cried before. The boy looked absolutely traumatized, his lips wet and his expression pained and his eyes unfocused. Vitae knelt on the ground, her dark cloak pooling around her, and Sasha saw that her expression looked pained too.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I… I can't help you, I'm so sorry…"

"What do you mean?" San asked, walking toward them with his bat slung across his shoulders. "You can alleviate pain, right? Cure sickness?" His hood had fallen away, likely in the jump between the roof and the ground, and Sasha saw his dark hair was a mess around his warm, freckled face. And he looked incredibly concerned, his lips pressed together thinly as he stared at the blond boy struggling on the ground.

"I _can_," Vitae said, shaking her head furiously. "I mean, I usually can! But… but he's… he's got nothing, no life, no aura, not even a trace, and I can't help him if he's not al—" She paused, and looked down at the boy, who stared at her with horror dawning on his face. Sasha blinked rapidly. _Alive,_ Vitae was going to say. She couldn't help the boy if he wasn't _alive_. "There must be something messing with my ability."

"What's your name?" the blond boy asked, his voice suddenly very clear. He sat up straight, his hollow gaze becoming focused.

"Vitae," she said, edging a little closer to him. She picked up the hem of her cloak, and wiped at the corner of his lips. At first, he recoiled from her touch, his body curling in disgust. And Vitae winced as well, pulling back and glancing around desperately, as if one of them could help her. But Sasha was suddenly very aware of how strange this boy in white was, and she frowned at Connie. He didn't seem to notice.

The blond boy looked up at Vitae, his eyes growing wide. "Wait…" he said breathlessly. He reached out and snatched Vitae's wrist, pulling her hand to his cheek until her knuckles grazed his skin. His eyes flashed with alarm, and he choked on an incredulous laugh. "H-holy shit…"

"Um…" Vitae pulled back, looking a little uncertain. "We should get you to a doctor. Someone who can actually help you, unlike me—"

"No," the blond by said. "You helped. A lot. Thank you so much." He pushed himself to his feet, still pressing Vitae's hand to his cheek. "Seriously, thanks."

"I didn't do anything," Vitae said weakly. "I can't."

He shook his head, and dropped her hand. "That's _exactly_ why you helped," he said, looking at her with large, excited eyes.

"So who are you?" Connie asked suddenly. He was clearly growing impatient, bouncing idly on his feet. Except he was vibrating in place. Typical.

"Um, Cicero," the boy said, blinking around as he wiped at his eyes furiously. "Who… are you two?" He looked pointedly at Sasha and Connie.

"Freeshooter," Sasha piped up. "And he's Friction. We're kinda a team."

"Right…" Cicero nodded.

"Cicero," Connie said suddenly, his eyes widening. "Whoa. Wait. You're the telepath that made that guy shoot himself!"

Cicero stood frozen for a moment, and he blinked at Connie with his glasses slipping down tear-slickened nose. The tiny boy did not speak, but his horror was written across his face. And Sasha elbowed Connie very hard in the ribs, stunned by how insensitive he could be without really meaning to. San cleared his throat, pushing himself further into the alley until he was at the very center of the four of them.

"You're a mindreader, right?" San asked, looking at Cicero with his expression cautious and concerned, his lips pressed together thinly. Cicero nodded slowly, staring at San with a furrowing brow. "I'm sorry, then. It must be hard to think straight with all of us cluttering your mind at once."

"No," Cicero said. He shook his head fast, his glasses slipping against his nose. "No, actually it's… weird, but I can barely catch a signal from any of you— well, except for Connie."

"What?" Connie blurted. "Dude, how do you know my—?"

"Sorry," Cicero gasped, biting his lip nervously. "I'm really sorry, your mind is just _really _loud."

Sasha snorted. "Just his mind?" she asked, laughing very hard when he shoved her.

Cicero smiled mildly. "Your frequency is almost nonexistent compared to his," he said. "But it's still there, at least." He waved at San and Vitae, who stood confusedly beside each other. "San's hard to hear, and Vitae's mind isn't reachable to me. Which is why I was so surprised when you touched me, by the way, because… usually, when I touch someone, their mind overwhelms me, and mine… mine overwhelms theirs too. It's terrible, but… with you, nothing happened." He looked so utterly relieved that Sasha thought he was going to begin to cry.

"Oh," Vitae said softly. "Oh, wow…"

Cicero stared at her, and then he turned away. "And," he said softly, "by the way, Connie, yeah. I was the one who made that guy shoot himself." He said it very casually now, but Sasha could sense that he was very uncomfortable with the fact. "I had no idea that he'd do it, but it doesn't make me any less responsible."

"Oh," Connie said, his voice heightening a little in pitch. "Oh. Um, sorry I asked, I mean…"

"It's fine."

_No it's not_, Sasha thought as Cicero turned to San. He threw a glance at her, but said nothing. _Oh shit, did he hear that?_ "I don't know if any of us will be much help out there— we're mostly just in the way, honestly. But if we get a higher view…"

San smiled gently. "I understand," he said.

Sasha was not happy that she had to scale another fire escape. Truthfully, this day was getting more and more bewildering, and the confusion was universal. Upon questioning, Cicero knew nothing more than them— other than the confirmation of Vitae's previous enigmatic statement. The robots were sentient. They were alive. And, perhaps, they were human. "Or at least," Cicero said, "that's how it appears."

"But how is that possible?" Sasha asked, watching as a blonde girl— Lionheart, Cicero informed them— caught one of the robots by its ear, and froze its entire neck. Sasha watched gleefully as the metal surround its massive metal nape froze, the plating shuddering and screeching as the wires coiling beneath the shifting metal was encased in ice.

"I don't know," Cicero said with a sigh, as San jumped up on the ledge. Ricochet was somewhere below, but San admitted that he wasn't too concerned, because Ricochet had good luck.

"Hey, can you shoot an arrow at that GFR over there?" San pointed at Lionheart's catch, which was alarmingly unperturbed by the ice licking up its jaw line. Lionheart was looking rather irritated, clinging to the robot with various icicles appearing and dispersing all across the plated face of the beast. "I've got an idea."

"Sure," Sasha said, yanking out a grappling arrow from her quiver. She notched it, and squinted for a moment before taking aim, and drawing her string back. She released the arrow, and smiled in satisfaction as it sailed through the air, and hit its target dead on. A cable extended from Sasha to the shoulder of the GFR Lionheart was attempting to take down, and she plucked it to make sure it was sturdy. "There you go. Don't fall, or anything, kay?"

"I'll be fine," San said, tossing his baseball bat over the cable. Sasha realized he intended to use her cable as a zip-line. "I take gymnastics!"

He kicked off the ledge, and Sasha buckled a little as his weight pulled the cable taut, and nearly sent her stumbling into the chasm between buildings. Sasha watched as he managed to flip right off the cable, and steady himself easily on the gleaming metal shoulder of the GFR. Amazing. Sasha could do that. Totally.

"Um, okay…" Cicero said slowly. "Anyway, like I was saying, I don't know exactly _how_ it's possible that the robots are sentient— it's weird, but I can tell by the… the way they move. And act. The way their eyes are."

Sasha wanted to call bullshit. She wanted to tell Cicero that there was no way the robots could be alive— but Sasha knew that there were a lot of things in the world that she'd never be able to understand. Connie had once told her what had happened to him that had triggered his super speed. He told her about the nurse named Ilse who had injected something into his IV drip, and he told her about his legitimate Jesus Christ experience in which he died and resurrected in such a glorious fashion that he was cured of being paraplegic. So she couldn't be surprised by much anymore, really— she was a fucking superhero! She could shoot better than half Olympic gold medalists! She was the Legolas of the modern world, with all the dumb fancy shit he pulls in the movies.

And there was weirder shit out there than giant sentient robots.

"So," Sasha said, "the problem now isn't really how, exactly, but _why_."

Cicero nodded vacantly, his large blue eyes surveying the destruction around them. Smoke and dust billowed from the destruction below, and firelight reflected off the hazy lenses of his glasses. "Exactly," he said softly. Vitae stood beside him, tugging the dark cloak further around her skinny frame.

"Who," she whispered. "Who as well. Who would want to cause this much… this much…?"

"Chaos," Cicero said. He raised his chin high, and his head bent backwards toward the sky. Sasha noticed San working with Lionheart to take down a robot, his wooden baseball bat splintering as he stabbed it into the fracturing nape of the monster's neck. Sasha's eyes widened, and she felt the cable that was still firmly attached to her yank her forward. She severed it on pure instinct, stumbling backwards from the edge of the roof as the robot went crumpling to the ground like a massive marionette whose invisible tethers had been unbound.

Sasha tore another grappling arrow from her quiver, notching it and taking aim fast. She drew the bowstring back, her teeth gritting as she struggled to find a target that was not moving, and she released hastily, her sneakers squeaking against the battered rooftop as she let the arrow tug her from the ledge and fling her into the air. Cicero cried out to her, but she did not hear him, because the wind was screaming at her and laughing at her, telling her she was just a foolish little girl, and she decided, fuck the wind, because she didn't need it to be able to do her job.

She caught San as he stumbled from the collapsing robot, her fingernails digging into the thick, padded fabric of his Kevlar vest, and they both screamed in absolute terror as the cable holding them shuddered, and they went skidding across the busted, torn up road. Sasha's bare arms tore against the cracked, porous asphalt. She lay on her stomach for a moment, stunned and blinded by the dust that had been kicked up upon her and San's descent. She coughed, blinking away tears, and she cried out in shock as San tackled her, pinning her to the street as he shielded her body with his own. She felt his arms fall over her head, and the earth rattled with the tremor of a giant body crashing and crushing and cracking its surface.

San helped her to sit upright as she continued to cough into her bloody hands, blinking into the thick, hot dust and smoke that had consumed them in mere moments. It occurred to Sasha that this was pretty weird, how she and this random dude were just protecting each other even though they'd only just met like, what, twenty minutes ago? But Sasha didn't care much at that point, and clearly San didn't either. He held her arms gingerly as he shouted above the din, "Can you stand?"

"Uh…" Sasha pushed herself to her feet, and she gave a strained, raspy laugh. "I guess so!"

They pulled each other out of the cloud of dust that plagued the entirety of that torn up road, coughing and teary eyed as they blindly collapsed at an abandoned corner, heaving clean, chilly air. San glanced down at her, all freckled and ashes and a toothy white grin, and he laughed.

"Thanks," he said, his voice very coarse from inhaling ash and dust. His hair had gone gray with particles gone adrift. "You're a really good shot, you know that?"

"I told you," she said. She was laughing and coughing, ignoring the terrible burning sensation that stole her biceps. She was still clutching her bow, somehow, and her knuckles had turned white from holding it so tightly. Tears were streaking hotly against her cheeks, and she wondered if there was a camera somewhere picking up her every move, and showing her parents just how dangerous vigilantism truly was. "People like us, we've gotta be the best at what we're good at if we're gonna be heroes, right?"

San stared at her for a moment, and he nodded. He then offered to wrap up her arms, because he had gauze, and she asked him if he had anything to eat instead. He just laughed, and took that as a positive reply, because he ended up bandaging her pretty damn well.

"So you're from Oregon?" Marco asked. His name was Marco. He told her that while he told her not to look as he wiped the pebbles out from her skinned upper arms. "My mom's there right now."

"Oh, really?" Sasha was drumming on her knee impatiently, listening to the sounds of shouts and crashing from the street right beside them. Connie went skidding past, and he paused to look at her. She shot him a thumbs up, and he shrugged and kept going on with wherever he was headed. "It's nothing special."

"Oh, don't say that," Marco said. "Everyone says that about where they're from, but it's such a terrible lie, don't you think?"

Sasha sat, her back pressed against some scummy building wall, her arms bleeding profusely from botching up a grappling job, and she blinked confusedly. Was she lying? It hadn't even occurred to her. Did she really hate Oregon, or was she just saying that because she was sick of the same trees and grass and fissures in the sidewalks that she saw every day of her life?

"Well, okay," Sasha said, glancing at his dirt-caked face. His eyes were glowing with warmth, and his skin seemed to glow just as warmly beneath all the soot and grime. "Don't you hate Chicago, though?"

"Well, maybe sometimes," Marco said quietly, glancing out into the street. Lionheart was coming toward them, looking a little agitated. "But I'm not actually from Chicago."

"Where are you from?" Sasha asked curiously as he pinned her bandages into place. He smiled brightly.

"Oh, way up east," he said with a shaky laugh. "I moved here three years ago, but the east coast is always gonna be my home. Trust me, when you move away from Oregon, you'll miss it. You'll wish you didn't take your time there for granted."

"Nah," Sasha said. She stood up, and dusted herself off. "When I leave home, I'm not gonna look back. There's no real use in it, y'know. I've never been nostalgic, so I can't imagine missing what I never cared for." She examined her bowstring, and frowned. "If this is busted, I'm gonna scream."

"Hi, Annie," Marco said. The tiny blonde girl glanced between him and Sasha, and then she shoved her hands into the pocket of her torn, blood stained gray hoodie. "You okay from the fall?"

"Fine," she said. Her voice was much higher than Sasha had expected it to be, the kind of dull, but sweet sound that came out of a cell phone when asking for directions. "Ricochet almost split his head open a few minutes ago. You should control that."

Marco gave a short, lofty sigh. "I would if I could," he said, his voice lingering in a soft whine. "He's so high maintenance, I can't even leave him alone for fifteen minutes."

Annie shrugged. Marco smiled at her warmly, and nodded. "Thanks," he said, jogging into the road. "See you later, Sasha!"

"It's Freeshooter to you, mister!" Sasha cried. She stood awkwardly for a moment, meeting Annie's eye. She merely stared blankly back. "Hi."

Annie continued to stare at Sasha, her eyes flicking for a moment as if assessing her height and build. She then turned away. "Armin wants you over by Mikasa."

"Um, what?" Sasha asked weakly. "Who?"

Annie exhaled sharply. "Cicero and Nio," she corrected herself.

"Oh!" Sasha recalled Nio from the rooftop, her intricately carve mask glinting dangerously in the mid-morning sunlight. Sasha took a step out into the dusty road, wiping her eyes on her reddening bandage. "Okay, I'll—"

A mighty crash swept both Sasha and Annie off their feet, and they collided for a moment, landing on the sidewalk in a tangle of limbs. Annie's skin was bitterly cold, and Sasha shrieked as she was shoved off the tiny girl's lap. Annie's blackened fingers had brushed Sasha's knuckles, and Sasha saw little frames of frost crawling across the white glow of her bones protruding through her skin.

"Um," Sasha choked as the smoke cleared around them. Another robot had crumpled to the ground, twitching feebly as metal screamed and hissed, caving in on itself as a winged man kicked off the spitting, creaking pile of steel, and left a massive dent in the robot and the road. He spared them a glance, and his eyes narrowed a little as his stained glass wings shimmered in the flickering rays of sunshine soaking through smog. "Holy crap."

"That's two," Annie said, pushing herself to her feet. Her clothes were utterly shredded.

"Cicero says they're sentient…" Sasha said softly. "What if that's true? Aren't we killing them, then?"

Annie stared ahead of her at the pile of steaming metal, and the armored robot coughed a bit of smoke in its last breath. Freiheit hovered for a moment, watching them, before another winged hero came swooping down, shrieking in delight. Their wings were metal plated, sleek and steely in comparison to the glassy color of Freiheit's. Sasha was pretty damn sure by the goggles and the crazed grin that this was Polymath.

"THIS IS AMAZING!" Polymath cried, their wings retracting as they landed beside the steaming, hissing robot corpses. "I designed something _just_ like this when I was going for my Master's, but far less advanced! Hey, Freiheit, can you—?"

"No," said Freiheit. His body curled momentarily against a current of wind, and then he shot upward, his glittering wings folding and clinking as though truly glass, and truly defying all sense of gravity.

"Yeesh," Polymath laughed, pushing their hair from their face. They glanced at Sasha and Annie, and they waved excitedly. "Hey, there! You guys wanna help me analyze—"

"No," said Annie, strolling past Polymath.

"Whoa there, missy," Polymath said, sounding a little awkward. "You're in big trouble, you know."

"Take it up with Nio," Annie said. "It was her idea."

"Hey!" Polymath shouted after the blonde girl. "Don't throw your siblings under the bus!"

Annie tossed up her arms into a careless shrug. "They're not my siblings." She walked away without another word, joining up with a very tall boy.

Polymath didn't seem to care what Annie had said, though, because they'd reached out to touch the twisted remains of one the robots, and recoiled with a shrill cry. "Hot!" they gasped, shaking their hands out into the air. "Wow, that needs a caution sign, yee—" They paused, and tilted their head upward as the road began to tremble. Rogue had crouched down beside them both, his massive finger brushing against Polymath's head. He rubbed their hair very gently, and they broke into a fit of giggles, clapping their palm against Rogue's bulky knuckle. "Oh, I'm _fine_, you big dummy. What about you? Feeling weak yet?"

Rogue moaned, his skinless mouth parting. And Polymath merely laughed, patting his hand gently. "I'll cut you out, kay?"

Rogue let out another moan, and he shook his head furiously. Polymath scowled up at him. "Excuse me," they said, "but that's enough crimefighting for today, don't you think?"

Rogue shook his head, a mighty grumble leaving his awkwardly shaped mouth, and it sounded like a whine. Polymath sighed, and threw their arm out toward the end of the road. "Look, there's nothing left for you to fight!" Polymath shook their head. "Unless you wanna carry these things for me—" They paused, and scowled as the giant man collapsed into the street, skin beginning to decompose fast in a burst of steam. And then they smirked. "Sucker."

"Um," Sasha said. "Is he okay?"

"Probably," Polymath said, pulling out a device from one of their many pouches. Their entire outfit seemed to be made of little utility belts, and it was a little uncanny. "Can you go check on him for me, though? If he's still stuck inside Rogue's neck, that'll be a problem."

"Okay…" Sasha said, drifting slowly toward the giant steaming mass of decomposing flesh. All her instincts were telling her to book it the fuck out of there. She coughed a little as she fought through the heat, her eyes burning as she stumbled over a deteriorating shoulder bone, and found herself colliding right into a tiny blonde boy.

"Sasha!" Armin cried, his arms locked around the shoulders of a very naked boy. Sasha squinted through the steam, and she fought down her own laughter. The boy's arms were consumed by red pulsating veins that attached themselves to the naked boy's very pores. It was like Rogue's decaying body was trying to devour the poor boy, and no matter what Armin did, the boy stayed rooted in the pile of steaming nerves that was the nape of Rogue's neck. "He's still awake, and I can't… I can't pull him out of here, can you…?"

Sasha bent down, her sneakers crushing massive bones and sinking into squishy, melting flesh, and she grabbed the boy around his torso. He tilted his head back, and Sasha saw that there were veins attached to the skin beneath his eyes, strings of pink, twisted nerves protruding from his skin. Perhaps it had simply grown there, festered like a weed and extended until an entire body formed around the glossy, thundering system of interworking veins.

"Is he okay?" Sasha choked on steam, the boy's head lolling onto her shoulder.

"I don't know," Armin said. He looked frantic, and she could not see his eyes because the lenses of his glasses had gone foggy. "I don't… he's being absorbed by his power, and I can't… I can't…" Armin let go of Eren with a strangled shout of frustration. His knees collided with the mush that once was Rogue's scalp. Sasha felt the nerves imbedded in the boy as they tugged at him. She could practically feel them beckoning him to melt into some rotting, melting corpse, and she gritted her teeth as she dug her nails into the boy's chest and yanked at him until she felt the veins and the muscles give a little.

"Wait," Armin said, "you're getting him. Keep pulling, okay?"

"It's kinda hard to—" she hissed, adjusting her grip on the boy's body. She was thankful for her upper body strength at that moment, because as she gained a better position, her footing stabilizing, she managed to pull the boy further from his fleshy tomb. She felt an arm reach behind her head, and she blinked as she heard her quiver click at the sound of an arrow being unfastened, and she stared in horror as Armin clutched one of her acutely sharpened, marked red for safety arrowheads, and took a brilliant stab at the drumming mass of nerves encompassing the boy's left arm. And the boy screamed.

Sasha had shot, killed, gutted, and carved up too many animals to count. She'd skinned them, ate them, made them into rugs— the smell of decaying flesh as all too familiar to her, and it probably clung to her like a stigma. But she'd never experienced anything quite so jarring as holding this boy steady as Armin sawed away at the overlapping tendrils of very alive, pulsing nerves that latched onto his forearm. He was screaming so loudly in her ear that she could not hear anything but his voice, pitchy and unsteady as it wailed and spat and cursed at her and Armin and there was something about his legs, and his father, and it was all nothing but gibberish. Armin's hands were dark with blood, his face smeared crimson and black, steaming blood and char licking at his cheeks. He'd pushed his glasses up onto his head in order to see clearer, and the nerves all seemed to snap at once, recoiling from the boy's stump of an arm as Armin reached over and began to slice through the cords of veins that gnawed at the boy's right arm.

His voice didn't fail him until Sasha's arrow cut through the last of the tethers holding him in the skeletal corpse of Rogue, and she finally managed to drag him out of the trap of nerves. He appeared half awake, his eyes open and glazed as he stared at the sky. Armin had torn off his white cloak, which was now sort of grayish and tattered, and he threw it over the naked boy's shoulders.

"Eren," Armin gasped, tugging the glove off his left hand and pressing a hand to Eren's sweaty forehead. The boy said nothing more, but his eyes were beseeching. And then Eren's eyes snapped open wide, and he lurched forward. Armin pushed him back. "Eren, calm down. You need to rest, okay? You were in Rogue for way too long."

"Yeah, yeah…" the boy grumbled, glancing down at his lap. Armin's cloak was a little too short, so Eren pulled his knees up and hugged them to his chest. "I had a spare set of clothes in my backpack."

Armin shook his head. "Sorry," he said weakly. "I don't know where it went."

"Wh—" Eren's eyes drooped, and he swayed in place. "Whatever… did we win…?"

Armin paused. He glanced at Sasha, her blinked at him with wide eyes. They both looked around, at the shattered buildings, at the cracked, busted, overturned road, at the pile of three robots gathered only a few yards away, and at the smoke billowing from so many points across the chilly city that it had turned the clear morning sky a dull, dusty gray.

"Yeah," Armin said, his voice quiet. Sasha could almost taste his bitterness. "Yeah, we won…"

* * *

_Personally one of my least favorite chapters, solely because I realized about... halfway through, just about, that Sasha was a poor choice in narration for this particular battle. I did my best, but I hate rewriting, so I wasn't going to change anything I already wrote. Plus, I love Sasha, and this is the only chapter of hers I've written thus far._

_Also, the way I wrote the robots was, um... strange. I wanted them to be very creepy! Almost... unreal, you could say?_


	12. humility conquers pride

_**humilitas occidit superbiam**_

**London, England**

_a.d. vi Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C._

The french fries were steaming profusely inside their little newspaper cone, fat and salted and a bright golden brown. Eren Jaeger sat happily on the steps overlooking the Tower of London, pigeons waddling a step or two away, their little heads bobbing as they eyed his freshly fried potato slices with envy. The wind picked up around him, tussling his hair and his faded green hoodie, and it kissed his ears bright red with the bitterness of the oncoming winter. He chewed thoughtfully on a fry, and then offered the cone to Levi.

The man glanced at him with his blue eyes darkened by his usual gloom, but Eren smiled weakly, and Levi sighed. Eren had come to the conclusion that Levi really liked kids. If Eren were just slightly older, Levi probably would have flipped him right over the rail and into the grassy grounds of the Tower before them.

"This is unsanitary," Levi told Eren. He sat on the steps beside him anyway, and stuck the fry between his lips as though it was a cigarette. Eren had forbidden him from smoking on the mission, and Levi had told him that he would drop him off on the iceberg that sunk the Titanic if he didn't shut his fucking mouth. Still, he hadn't actually tried smoking yet, so maybe he'd be mindful.

"It's pretty cool, though," Eren said, looking over at the ancient tower that stood stolidly across from them, a relic of simpler times and simpler minds. "Armin'd love it."

Levi grunted in response. They'd been assigned this mission for about a week now, and it was still a struggle to get Levi to do anything but glance at him somberly, or grunt, or make short monotone remarks. Eren had asked Mikasa how to approach Levi, but Mikasa had merely told him to kick Levi in the balls, and that was certainly not something Eren intended to do, like, ever, so he was at his wit's end.

After they'd defeated the giant fucking robots, or GFR as Reiner had dubbed them, Armin had taken great care to make them all invisible before anyone showed up to bother them about… well, the collateral damage. Apparently there had been no casualties, which was amazing, but strange. And now they'd all been thrust into public spotlight more so than ever. Polymath and Rogue were already pretty popular, but now Eren saw his monstrous face on tee shirts when he passed street vendors, and he was a little disturbed to find that Mikasa's Nio mask had been given similar treatment. Eren told her to march up to venders trying to make a profit on what she herself had admitted to be the only real tie she had left to her mother and heritage, but she refused. She didn't care, she said. It didn't concern him even if she did.

It was absolutely infuriating. Armin didn't get that treatment, because no one had ever really seen his face, and they were all rather glad for it. Armin's power was a little too volatile for anyone to handle, so it was probably best if no one focused too much on how undoubtedly dangerous he could be. _We're all dangerous,_ Eren thought, munching on another fry. _Why, though? Why were we chosen to be this way?_

Since the Chicago incident, their little team had grown significantly in size. For one thing, everyone who'd been at the institution was now accounted for as far as Eren could tell. In fact, two extra kids showed up out of the blue, Christa and Ymir, whom Eren had never met previous to Chicago. Ymir hadn't even participated in the fighting. She just appeared drowsily from the back of Hange's jet when they had all been on their way home, blinking at them and laughing at their disheveled appearances. She and Christa had reunited rather excitedly, and Eren had wondered what reuniting with Armin and Mikasa might have been like if Eren hadn't temporarily died.

"Erwin Smith, Augur," Erwin had introduced a week previous. "Levi, Freiheit. Hange Zoë, Polymath. Eren Jaeger, Rogue. Mikasa Ackerman, Nio. Armin Arlelt, Cicero. Annie Leonhardt, Lionheart." Eren had elbowed Annie at that to force her to pay attention, but she'd merely shoved him into Armin in retaliation. She was playing with her cell phone, which had been a gift from Hange that all the new kids had received. "Reiner Braun, Brawn. Bertholdt Hoover, Skinner. Christa Lenz, Vitae. Jean Kirschstein, Ricochet. Marco Bodt, San. Constantino—"

"It's _Connie,_" the bald boy blurted from the holographic computer screen. Unfortunately, they were all a little too far away from each other to have an official meeting face to face, so anyone who did not accompany Hange to Manhattan was only present via skype. "Please, please change it. I didn't write that down."

"I did," Sasha chirped from somewhere beyond Connie's camera. The warm skinned boy glared at her, and his nose scrunched up in disgust.

Erwin gave a short nod. "Consider it changed," he said. "Connie Springer, Friction. Does that sound right to you?"

"Yeah," Connie said, nodding eagerly. "Yeah, that's right."

"Sasha Braus, Freeshooter," Erwin continued. "And Ymir."

Ymir lifted one dark, freckled arm, raising it level as she pointed at Erwin with nothing but her forefinger and her thumb extended. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and winked as she gave her faux-gun of a hand a little jerk— _click-click_— and she shot Erwin dead with a wink and a laugh. Christa stood quietly beside her, still wearing that god awful shirt that Jean Kirschstein had given to her that boldly proclaimed, **TAKE A HIT**. Levi had actually chuckled when he'd seen the baggy, worn out shirt, which was a testament to how fucking ridiculous it was.

"Where's this Marco kid?" Ymir asked, looking pointedly at Jean's face floating on its own solitary screen. Her eyes were narrowed, as they tended to be whenever she decided to speak, and she folded her bare arms across her chest.

"He's here," Jean said, glancing away from the camera with a frown. "He's doing homework."

"Wow," Sasha said, sticking her head into the frame of Connie's recording. "Lame!"

"Yeah, I know, right?" Jean rolled his eyes. "How much can a person write about "Half-Hanged Mary", anyway?"

"I don't think I need to remind you," came Marco's quiet voice, "that you're failing English, right?"

"Okay, shut up and go back to your goddamn witch," Jean said dully, scowling away from the camera.

"If you _read _the poem," Marco said, "then you'd know that Mary was not, in fact, a witch. But they hung her anyway."

_What're they talking about? _Eren asked Armin. The boy had been focused on Ymir, his eyes watching the freckled girl's expression with a very pensive frown.

_What?_ Armin didn't tear his gaze away from Ymir. _Half-Hanged Mary? It's a poem about a woman who was hanged for witchcraft, but incorrectly. She ended up hanging from a tree for hours and hours until the sun came up, and the townspeople found her still alive, and cut her down_.

_Sounds dumb_, Eren said. _Can I read it on your gloves?_

_Look it up on Google, or something, Eren, holy shit_. Armin actually shot Eren a glare, as if he was appalled by the notion of anyone using his magical literature gloves for the purpose of actually reading literature.

"So, hey," Reiner said. "Why doesn't Ymir get a hero name?"

"Because it's dumb," Ymir said.

"You're using your last name, Reiner," Christa pointed out.

Reiner opened his mouth. And then he coughed, and averted his gaze. "Nah," he said. "It's spelled differently."

"You know how to spell?" Annie asked in her perfectly sweet, perfectly dead voice.

The entire room had burst into shrill laughter, even Annie, even Mikasa, even Christa, even Bertholdt, and even Marco's voice from somewhere beyond a camera in Chicago rung noisily throughout Hange's "office". Their office was basically like a secret laboratory, and it was pretty damn cool with all the holographic tech they'd installed. And it was shiny.

"Okay, settle down," Erwin said. By that point, Reiner was laughing the loudest. "We've got some news. Hange managed to dig up some information from the facility's database, and you all need to be attentive when they speak to you."

"Um," Connie said, his hand rising weakly on his screen. "Are we gonna get quizzed on this?"

"If I say no," Erwin said, his eyes moving to the screen that read Salem, Oregon, "will you pay attention?"

"Um…" Connie smiled. "Yeah, totally."

"He's lying," Sasha called. She was no longer on screen, but she could be heard shuffling in the background.

"Then yes, Connie, you will be quizzed," Erwin said.

"_What_?" Connie's large brown eyes flashed with terror. "Sasha!"

_Is he serious?_ Eren asked through the mindlink. Armin glanced at him, and smiled weakly.

_Probably_, he said.

_Your dad's got a sick sense of humor,_ Eren said. Armin stiffened at the remark, and he looked at Eren sharply.

_Eren, how many times do I have to tell you that he's _not_ my_—

"Okie dokie, so," Hange said, strolling up beside Erwin, "basically, I stumbled on the most juicy of conspiracy theories, boy oh boy. Like, this stuff is whack."

"Whack," Levi repeated. "What decade are you living in, shitty glasses?"

"The kind that has space colonization," Hange replied. "Anyways, basically I found out a lot of stuff about people we knew were in deep with this institution bullshit, and people we'd never ever imagine in the history of ever getting involved in something so crazy. It's so amazing!"

"Cut to the point," Levi sighed.

"Well," Hange said, smiling brightly. "First of all, we're going to split everyone into squads. We're going to attempt a three part mission simultaneously— meaning it might get a little tough. So any of you who want to back out, say so now."

No one had said anything. And so, Hange had grinned, and clasped their hands together excitedly.

"Great!" they cried. "So, Alpha Squad…"

Eren and Levi sat quietly on the steps overlooking the London Tower. Pigeons bobbed their heads wildly, picking up scraps of discarded Fish and Chips from the faded gray stones. Eren thought that maybe this mission would turn out okay. After all, Levi wasn't exactly someone to trifle with. He'd taken down a giant fucking robot all by himself. A robot that Eren had fought as _Rogue_, and been unable to take down. It was very clear that messing with Levi was probably some form of suicide.

"It's a lot nicer here than in New York," Eren admitted.

"Anywhere is better than New York," Levi replied. He was on his phone, frowning at the screen as though he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. "You should check your blood, or whatever."

"I checked it before we left," Eren said. He sighed, and stared down at his fries. They'd only been in London for about half an hour, and the anxiety was killing him. He didn't particularly want this mission, despite all his curiosity, all his desperation for answers. Maybe it'd be better if he just forgot all about it and went home, back to Hange and stability and love. "How do your wings work?"

Levi looked at him. It was the kind of sharp, disbelieving look a teenager might give a small child. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly.

"I mean," Eren sighed, "like, they're a part of your skin, right? They're a tattoo, but then they're like… glass, or something, and but none of the glass is connected. How the hell do you maintain flight with wings like that?"

Levi simply stared, as though he could not fathom Eren's interest in something so silly, so trivial, so unimportant to the greater picture. The circles under his eyes were illuminated by the peeking of the setting sun behind a grand cover of gray clouds. "How do you become a fifteen meter beast by biting your fucking hand, kid?"

Eren sat, taken aback, and he blinked rapidly. "I… don't really…" He sighed, and grimaced at the empty newspaper cone. "Okay, point taken. But, like… you said you remembered the institute, and I just thought…"

"Why do you call it that?" Levi asked suddenly.

Eren glanced at the man, who looked very irritated with little cause to be so. "Call it what?" he asked. "The institution?"

"Yeah, both," said Levi. "Erwin and I always called it the facility, but all you kids call it an institute, like you went there to learn something."

"We did go to school there," Eren said slowly. "But it was really stuffy, and we all hated it."

"Well, no shit."

Eren looked away. Levi was difficult to talk to. He couldn't quite hold a conversation with the man, because the man just dodged every question, or answered so simply that nothing was truly answered at all. Eren was certain Levi wasn't doing it on purpose, but it was infuriating to him because he was so used to Hange, who was unbelievably open with all their research and knowledge, and it was such a drastic change. But at least Levi actually talked to Eren. Erwin Smith didn't really interact much on a personal level with any of them except Armin.

"Why did they give you wings?" Eren asked as they both stood up. "Do you know?"

"Why are you so fucking nosy?" Levi eyed him suspiciously as he tossed the remains of his dinner into the nearest garbage. "Why should it matter?"

"Because," Eren said, staring at Levi with a confused, desperate gaze, "none of us know why we have the powers we have. We can't remember. But you can, can't you, Levi?"

The man stood for a moment, rays of sunlight from the partially visible sunset hitting his pallid face. And he shook his head. "I fed you," he said quietly. "Now you're gonna shut up, and follow me."

Eren watched Levi whirl around and march toward the street, and he realized that he ought to do as he was told. They walked silently side by side, traffic building up as the sky grew darker. Eren checked his phone as they waited at a crosswalk, his shoulder resting against a pole as he took a picture of the back of Levi's head and sent it to Armin and Mikasa. The light changed, and Levi and Eren went striding toward the subway— the _Tube_— and they took a few steps down into the surprisingly cleanly subway stop. There wasn't even any graffiti in plain sight. It was almost miraculous.

As they boarded a car, a smooth monotone voice called, "Mind the gap, please." And Eren burst into a fit of laughter.

They stood awkwardly clutching the glossy yellow pole at the center of the car before they managed to find and claim two seats for the duration of their ride. Eren received a snapchat from Armin, and he found himself laughing once again, though no one so much glanced at him as the London underground went rattling by in a blur of black and gray and bright, retina burning yellow.

"Look," Eren said, turning the phone to Levi. The man glanced at the screen, his lips pressing together thinly. And then his eyes sparked with interest, and he took the phone from Eren's hand and peered at it closely.

"Is she wearing _make up_?" Levi asked in such a strange, soft, incredulous voice, that Eren thought he might begin to cry. But no. He sat just as stolidly as ever, his hands cupping Eren's phone.

"Yeah," Eren said. "She looks real pretty."

Levi sat quietly. And then he nodded, turning the phone back to Eren with a frown gracing his lips. _It's gotta be hard seeing the kid you raised grow up,_ Eren thought, watching Levi's face curiously. _You act like you don't care, but you ain't foolin' anyone, Levi_. Eren looked down at the picture he had saved to his phone of Mikasa sitting at a vanity, turning her frowning face toward the camera. Her lips were glossy and crimson, and her angular eyes carefully defined with kohl, and her cheekbones graced with the faintest hint of rouge. She was looking at the camera as though she had no idea that a picture was being taken, her lips half-parted and her brow furrowed in irritation. Behind her, Annie was leaning against the wall, dressed in black and blue while Christa, who stood beside her, braided Mikasa's very short black hair.

"Does she not wear make up often?" Eren asked awkwardly. This was not something he knew about Mikasa. He had never really gotten the concept of make up. It didn't strike him as fun to gunk up your face everyday.

"No," Levi said. "She thinks it's a waste of money."

"Oh," Eren said. "Well… to be fair…"

"Yeah, I think I brainwashed her into thinking that," Levi admitted. "But I don't give a fuck, it saved me a shitton."

"What did you even do?" Eren asked.

"Excuse me?"

Eren was keenly aware of the dangerous look in Levi's eye— or perhaps Eren was just scared shitless of the man. "Um, well…" Eren blinked rapidly. "You know, before you moved in with us. What was your job?"

"Oh." Levi settled back into his seat, and he shrugged. "Pick a profession. I've probably done it."

"Have you ever been in a movie?" Eren immediately asked. Levi gave him the most incredulous of stares, and he turned his face forward.

"Pick something plausible, Eren," Levi said with a sigh.

"Why isn't being a movie star…?" Eren flung his hands into the air. "Okay, wow, shit, sorry. Doctor?"

Levi grimaced. "Sure," he said dully. "But definitely didn't make anyone feel any better."

"Uh…" Eren was trying to understand the implications there, but he decided to let it go. "Journalist?"

"I freelanced for a trashy paper for awhile, yeah," Levi said. "I got to write about homicides in Chicago."

"That's… cool," Eren said, uncertain of how his voice sounded. "Okay, so… uh… teacher?"

"I tutored."

"Whoa, really?" Eren's eyes lit up. "What subject?"

"History."

"That's really cool," Eren said. "Why didn't you go for a career in that?"

"I was a drop out," Levi said, resting his head back against the rattling window behind him.

"Oh…" Eren frowned. "Well, that's okay. It kinda worked out, right?"

"Well, considering I have a steady income," Levi said, glancing at Eren with a bored expression. "Yeah. It kinda worked out."

Eren smiled. Levi wasn't the type to talk about himself often, so it was nice to hear him open up about things like this. Eren didn't know a whole lot about people— he liked people, sure, but he wasn't very good at understanding them. So he was always happy to learn new things about someone, just so maybe he could unravel the mystery of the human condition. And Levi was so enigmatic, it was only good fun to poke and prod at the surface of his past.

"So why history?" Eren asked.

Levi sighed. He was wearing a threadbare sweatshirt that made him look rather like a teenager, his skinny, muscular frame swallowed up by the faded red cloth. "I dunno," he said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I dunno at all, I just… I liked it when I was in school. I was good at it."

"What happened?"

"Life." Levi rose to his feet as the subway car threw itself into a slower pace, his fist closing around the glossy yellow pole and pushing through the cluster of people standing in wait at the doors. Eren followed obediently, catching the bars above his head that Levi had not been able to reach very well.

As Levi and Eren were spat into the dimly lit subway stop, a smooth accented voice reminding them to, "Mind the gap, please," a sharp voice called out.

"Oi!" Eren's arm was caught by the bony hand of a very small woman. She immediately released him when he spun to face her, blinking as someone bumped into him by default of standing in the middle of a busy platform. The woman was young, her eyes distinctly alert and mildly cautious behind her round, wire-rimmed glasses. Her hair was an almost metallic platinum blonde color, choppy and styled carefully to make it cleanly presented. Eren found himself wondering how a woman could look so punk rock while simultaneously holding the sort of taciturn presence of a Sunday school teacher.

"What the hell do you want?" Levi snapped at the woman, distrustful from the very moment she'd laid a hand on Eren.

The woman glanced at Levi, her sharp eyes assessing his appearance very quickly. Her pale eyebrows quirked, and Eren could tell she was unimpressed. "I'm sorry," she said dully, her gaze matching the intensity of Levi's, "did I happen to offend you in some way within the minute that I've known you?"

"You touched my kid," Levi said, pushing Eren behind him in such a fiercely defensive way that Eren found himself stunned into immobility. "I don't care what your issue is, lady, but nobody touches my fucking kids."

The woman blinked rapidly in shock, and she glanced between Levi and Eren for a moment as though she could not process exactly what Levi was telling her. "I didn't realize he was your…" Her soft, accented voice faded as an elderly man stepped up beside her. He was smiling brightly, his dark face lined and tight as he folded his arms behind his back.

"Is something the matter, Rico?" asked the old man, his accent distinctly western in comparison to his fair-haired companion. He looked between Levi and Eren curiously, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Naw," Rico said, holding up a familiar looking iPhone. "This kid left his mobile on the Tube."

"Holy shit," Eren blurted, reaching eagerly for his cell phone. "I didn't even notice, wow."

Rico returned it to him with a shrug. "You were in a bit of a hurry," she said, eying Levi with just as much distrust as he gave her. "You might want to be careful, though, if this is your first time in London. You're as likely to get your purse slit as any major city, but leave your valuables on the Tube like that again and I sincerely doubt you'll get it back."

"Right," Eren said, nodding gratefully. "Thanks, miss—"

Levi grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away. Eren cried out in surprise. "Quit pulling me!" he gasped. Levi did not release him, but he did throw a glance back at Rico and the elderly man, who stood near the edge of the platform and watched them. "Yeesh, Levi, what the fu—?"

"Did Hange never teach you about strangers, Eren?" Levi asked, his expression vacant, but his voice furious.

"Of course they did," Eren hissed, wincing at how tight the man's grip was on his bicep. "But that lady was just helping me—"

"I don't care," Levi said. "I don't care who it is, or why. You're in a strange city, Eren, and people could easily take advantage of that fact. Why did you even let her grab you?"

"What?" Eren stopped in the middle of the steps that led up to the darkened London streets. "Levi, I don't have an automatic attack button if someone grabs me, okay? I'm not gonna attack a chick on the fuckin' street just 'cause she touched my arm. And why did you tell her that I was your kid, anyway?"

Levi exhaled very sharply, his nostrils flaring as he glared up toward the glimmering lamp built into the arch of the ceiling. "Think what you want about me," Levi said coldly, "but a kid is less likely to get approached if a parent is with him— or her. I noticed that over the years."

"Levi," Eren said very gently. The man looked very small all of a sudden, and it was astonishing. "I can take care of myself."

Levi glanced at him. And he scoffed.

"You couldn't take care of a gold fish," Levi said, rolling his eyes. Eren frowned, and he couldn't help but feel offended.

"Hange was a stranger, you know," Eren said suddenly as Levi started forward again. He paused to look at Eren sharply. "They found me wandering the side of a highway, and they picked me up. Anyone coulda done it, and I coulda been way worse off, but it was Hange. And they took me home, and cleaned me up, because I was all… muddy, and bloody, I think, and they asked me where I lived, and I said nowhere, and they just blinked and— and _laughed, _and said, "Well, now, that's not true. You can live here." And that was that. So, I mean, I guess I've got a different perspective than you 'bout strangers, but what if I'd ran away from Hange?" Eren shook his head furiously. "My life would fuckin' suck, okay? So…"

"Eren," Levi said. "I didn't ask you for your entire fucking life story. I just want you to be cautious."

"I _am_," Eren gasped.

"No," Levi said, marching forward. "No, you're not. You've got no common sense, and you're reckless and impulsive— you're practically begging for someone to beat you up and mug you."

"I'd beat 'em," Eren declared. "And besides, I can take my ass being kicked to hell an' back."

Levi shook his head as they were met with the chilly October air, streetlamps illuminating the dim London street. They began to walk very slowly, but only because Levi was barely moving. His shoulders were hunched, and he was still shaking his head. It was beginning to drizzle as they turned a corner, Levi's eyes traveling from street sign to street sign. His head was still shaking.

"You have this incredibly stupid notion," Levi said quietly, "that you can just take on everything. That just because you can heal yourself, you're suddenly invincible. And I swear, Eren, one day you'll realize that there are some things you can't bounce back from. And when that day comes, I hope you're not alone, because trust me when I say that you won't survive it."

Eren grimaced at Levi, and he kicked a rock into the street in confusion. "Okay," Eren said. "Are we talkin' like, emotional scarring? 'Cause I've got plenty of that already. Like, you haven't seen it yet, but apparently I can get pretty fucking ridiculous when I get angry."

"You clearly have no idea what I'm talking about," Levi said.

"That's because you're being cryptic as _fuck_!"

"Eren," Levi said. "Why don't you focus on what you're going to say to your father?"

Eren nearly tripped over his own feet. Ah. Yes. The mission. Alpha Squad had the objective to find and possibly apprehend Grisha Jaeger. Hange had managed to find a handful of addresses that his father had compiled as emergency contacts, in case the institute needed to find him. One of them was in London. And thus, here they were. The squad probably would have been larger if Hange still had three planes, but since Eren had kinda destroyed the fastest one, Erwin had decided to send Levi and Eren alone. Across the Atlantic Ocean. It might have been a really awkward few hours if Eren hadn't, y'know, fallen asleep.

"Um…" Eren said, frowning at the darkened sidewalk.

"You're fucking hopeless," Levi sighed. He stopped before a rather nice looking apartment building, all bright white with a teal door. It was a little small, but all the buildings on that particular street were squished together anyway. Eren stood before the building, his stomach squirming into knots as he realized the reality of what was happening. His father could be behind that door. "You ready?"

"No," Eren murmured. _What if he doesn't recognize me_, Eren thought frantically, _because I've grown so much? What if he does, and he just doesn't care? What if he's really all bad after all? What if…?_ "But, I mean, I ain't got much of a choice here."

"No," Levi said quietly. They stood for about a minute in silence, staring at the apartment that perhaps held Eren's father, or perhaps did not. There were things that Eren's father had done that Eren couldn't forgive him for. _Armin keeps saying he's gonna die in here, gonna die, gonna die, and you just don't care, do you, that that's what everyone thinks of you, as the blessed damn grim reaper, 'cause that's your shtick, ain't it?_ "Eren."

"Y-yeah?" _Armin keeps saying he's gonna die, gonna die, gonna die, gonna die, gonna die in here… and you take people, don't you, dad? You take people, and you make them think you're gonna save them. But we know better_.

"If you really don't want to do this—"

"No. What?" Eren shook his head furiously. "No! I need to talk to him."

"Eren," Levi said. "Look— fuck, okay, listen. Your dad did some nasty stuff. I remember, I knew some people in that facility. People who came out worse for wear. You've gotta know that you don't owe him anything, right?"

"Yeah," Eren said impatiently. "Duh. He's an asshole. I get it."

"I don't think you do," Levi sighed.

"Well," Eren snapped, "fucking _explain _to me, then!"

Levi said nothing. Because he didn't want to explain anything to Eren, and he wasn't really attempting to form a connection with Eren. He just wanted Eren to feel comfortable in this bullshit mission. Eren missed Armin and Mikasa. He missed the sensation of their minds so close to his, ribbons connecting their thoughts and their feelings, so that they could never truly feel alone, never truly ache without the comfort of another's mind to soothe the pain. Here, though, the emptiness was crippling.

After another minute of simply standing there in the cold, Levi decided to just kick the door in. Because that was fucking inconspicuous. _He thinks I'm too confident_, Eren thought glumly as they entered the flat. _But he just waltzes into these things without a plan, or nothin'. Armin would be going crazy right now_. Levi turned on a light immediately, and the entire flat was bathed in a warm yellow glow. It was a nice little apartment, with a foyer that led straight into a cozy little living room, and a kitchenette. There were two other doors in the room. Eren wondered if one was a backdoor.

"I don't think anyone's here," Eren said. They weren't trying to be sneaky, Eren knew, so he began to wander about the room. Everything was sort of… spotless. Eren had a nagging feeling that his father was long gone. Bummer.

"Maybe…" Levi ran his fingers across the bookcase beside the open door. "Eren, look at this."

"What?" Eren glanced at Levi, who was staring at his two fingers. He held them out. "Levi, I don't see anything."

"Exactly." Levi's hand closed into a fist, and he kicked the door closed. "Someone's dusted very recently."

Eren didn't know what to say. So then they began to search the flat for anything useful. They found nothing but a few receipts from a super market, an empty pocketbook, an old key, and a spool of red string. Eren plucked up a book from the bookshelf, and began to flip through it. Nothing. Then another. Nothing. Pages slipped through his fingers, and Levi kicked closed another drawer. Another book. Nothing. A cabinet opened and closed. Another book.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Eren blinked, and he bent down, fishing it from the carpet and blinking at it in wonder. He carefully unfolded it, and saw that it was in a faintly blocky script, a child's very precise, very neat hand. The letters were written in pencil, which made them appear scratchy on the little bit of paper. _Dr. Jaeger_, it said, _I know you said it's not very safe right now, but if it's okay, I'd really like to see my mom. I think she's very sad right now, and I also think that it's my fault, so I'd really appreciate it if I could see her. Also, I drew a picture for Historia, if Dr. Langner could put it in her room for me. Thank you. Armin Arlelt_.

It was surreal, clutching the little bit of paper with Armin's little baby signature, with his words that were too smart for a child, and yet here it was, the little glimpse of the Armin Arlelt that had been before the procedure, before he'd completely lost all sense of himself. _His mom_, Eren though wildly. _Armin has a mom_. There was something too strange about the thought, as though Eren could not possibly imagine Armin in any possible way aside from simply springing into existence out of the whim of some mischievous god.

"Levi," Eren gasped, whirling around to face the man. He was kneeling beside a cabinet, holding a little square between his fingers. He glanced up at Eren dully. "I found… I don't really know, but I found something."

"Gimme." Levi reached out for the little scrap of paper, and he offered up his square in response. Eren took it, and just by the texture of the square he knew immediately what it was. A photograph. Eren swallowed hard, and he sunk to his knees as he turned it around slowly. His own smiling face greeted him, brilliant and dark from the Oklahoma sun, his eyes glittering with delight as his mother attacked him with her dainty fingers, her honey-colored eyes a mirror of his own. Eren's heart pounded in his chest. Tears stung his eyes, and he scrubbed at the hollows of his skull with the heels of his hands, and the photograph sat in his lap, a heavy reminder of what little happy memories remained from Eren's childhood.

"Langner," Levi said. He chose to ignore Eren's tears. "That's Ymir's name."

Eren nodded mutely. He sniffled, and gritted his teeth in frustration. "Maybe," he said, "she's in the same boat as me."

"Maybe," Levi said quietly. His eyes flickered as he scanned the letter again. "Who the fuck is Historia?"

"Yeah, I haven't got a clue." Eren avoided looking at his lap as he rested his shoulder against the wooden cabinet. "I've never heard that name before. Ever."

"More questions than answers," Levi muttered, closing his eyes.

"It's better than nothing," Eren said. "And maybe my dad'll be back, or something."

"No," Levi said. "He cleaned out this place as best he could in a short period of time." He paused, and his eyes snapped open dangerously. "He knew we were coming."

"What?" Eren blinked in shock. "How? Unless he had like, Erwin with him or something."

Levi said nothing. He looked back down at the note, and held it up between two fingers. "Where'd you find this?"

"In a book." Eren shrugged. "Uh, something by Victor Hugo."

"Why would your father keep it?" Levi turned the paper over in his hands. "Do you know?"

"No clue," Eren said. "Unless it was just a book mark, maybe."

Levi nodded. "Okay. One more thing. Did you leave the door open?"

Eren stared at Levi confusedly. "What?" he blurted, twisted to look at the door. It was, in fact, wide open. The familiar sound of a gun cocking, the safety clicking off caused Eren to face Levi again. The man sat with a somber expression as a woman with choppy hair and glasses stuck the barrel of a handgun against Levi's hair.

"Don't move," Rico said. Her voice was raspier now than it had been on the platform, and her eyes were duller in the gleam of the yellow lamplight. "I knew you looked familiar, but I couldn't quite catch who you were immediately."

"Rico," Levi addressed her, slowly raising his hands into the air. "You dyed your hair."

"Um…" Eren said. Levi shot him a look, and Eren decided to stay silent. _Can a bullet kill the world's strongest man_? Eren wondered.

"What are you doing here?" Rico asked. Her voice was so casual that Eren wondered if she usually greeted people with such an immense threat.

"Nothing illegal," Levi said. Rico scoffed. "Why did you follow us?"

"I didn't."

Levi sat for a moment. "Then why the fuck are you here?" he asked.

"Oh, I think I can answer that." The front door closed, and Eren turned around once more to see the elderly man from the platform standing only a yard away. _Where the fuck did they come from?_ "Rico here came to me a few years ago with this amazing story— only, it was a complete fabrication, a conspiracy theory, really— or so I thought."

"Who the fuck are you?" Eren asked. He was done being docile and polite. He was gonna beat the shit out of something real fuckin' soon.

"Dot Pixis," said the man kindly. "I own a news network. Blogs, newspapers, a twitter account." He gave a little shrug. "Whatever."

"So…" Eren wanted to scream, he was so enraged. "You're doing a story about my dad, or…?"

"Eren," Levi hissed. Too late. Pixis's eyes grew rather large, and he blinked at Eren in wonder.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, I didn't even recognize you."

"You don't know me," Eren said flatly.

"I know of you," Pixis said. "You survived a fire when you were… what, eight?"

Eren jumped to his feet, the photograph of him and his mother fluttering sadly to the ground. "Who the fuck are you?" Eren repeated with a snarl, taking a stride forward with his entire body coiling in fury. _How does he know about the fire_? Eren wondered wildly. _No one knows about the fire. I don't even know about the fire, really, so how_—?

"Dot Pixis," the man repeated, blinking down at Eren in wonder. "Like I said before—"

"Yeah, okay, fine!" Eren cried. "But what do you want? How do you know about me— and my dad, and— and the _fire_?" He was shaking from his rage, his teeth cracking together as his jaw clenched. "Who the fuck are you?"

Pixis's expression softened a little. "Ah." He closed his eyes, and nodded slowly. "I see. Rico, you can lay off that poor man, you know. We're amongst friends."

"You don't know Levi, sir," Rico said quietly.

"Go ahead and shoot me," Levi stated in his chilly monotone. "Have you ever killed someone before, Rico?" She did not respond. Eren glanced back at her, and saw that her eyes had narrowed at Levi, both hands supporting her handgun now. Levi raised his head to press hard against the barrel of the gun, and stretched himself very slowly to his feet. "Tch. That's what I thought."

"You're a sociopath," Rico accused. Levi whirled around to face her.

"You don't know me," Levi said sharply. "I don't know you."

"You caused a rather large explosion that killed quite a few people," Rico said, "if I'm not mistaken."

Levi stared at her for a moment. Eren watched his nostrils flare ever so slightly, his agitation clear. "And here you are," Levi said. "Free. You're fucking welcome."

"Um…" Eren's anger had faded fast into confusion. "Okay, wait. Hold on. She was at the institute?"

"The _what_?" Rico lowered her gun ever so slightly as she looked at Eren. She glanced back at Levi. "What is he talking about?"

"The facility," Levi said. "All the kids that were there call it the institute. Did you know there were kids, Rico?"

The woman nodded slowly. She met Pixis's eye, and she lowered her gun. "Yeah…" She sighed, and flicked the safety of her gun off. "Yeah, I do now. Did _you_?"

"Yes," Levi said.

"Unbelievable," Rico muttered, closing her eyes.

"You were there too?" Eren asked eagerly, taking a step closer to the woman. She glanced at him icily, and Eren paused. "So… like, you've got a power, then?"

"Yeah," Rico said. "That's how I got in here."

"She's able to turn intangible— phase through solid matter," Dot Pixis said. "A nifty little trick, I would say, for gathering information. She's a wonderful asset."

"Okay, you're gonna explain everything right now," Eren said, whirling to face Pixis. The man merely smiled. "I'm not fucking around! Tell me everything you know about— about this bullshit institute stuff, and my dad. Tell me _everything_!"

Pixis's smile widened. "Hm," he said, "you're very passionate, eh?"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Eren said, taking his wrist in his hand. Before he could crack it, Levi caught him. His dark blue eyes flashed dangerously up at Eren.

"Calm down," he hissed.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Pixis laughed, walked toward the couch. "I was just thinking, well, you're a lot like your mother."

"What," Eren said, his entire body shaking in rage, "the fuck."

Pixis sat down. He shrugged, and lifted a flask from a satchel at his side. "Patience," Pixis said. "I thought you wanted an explanation, Eren."

"Yeah, I do," Eren snapped, "starting with how the fuck you know who I am."

Pixis took a swig from his flask. "Alright," he said. "Sit down, all of you. This is might take some time."

"Great," Levi said. His voice was bitterly unenthusiastic, and he glared up at the ceiling.

Eren sat down on the floor, and Levi followed glumly. Rico sat beside Pixis on the sofa, holstering her gun and folding her hands in her lap. The old man looked around sadly. "I imagine Grisha's already long gone, by the looks of it," Pixis said. "That's a shame. I have some questions of my own for him."

"So do I," Rico said darkly.

Eren glanced at her. And he realized she must've been just as much of a victim as Eren and Levi. "Okay," he said. "I'm waiting real fuckin' patient, here."

"Yes," Pixis laughed, nodding genially at Eren. "I can see that. Well, to begin with, you should know that I actually used to know your father very well, Eren. He was a military doctor for a brief amount of time, just enough for us to cross paths— I'm not American, of course." Pixis waved his flask offhandedly. There was a maple leaf embossed on its face, roses gathering around it, and Eren realized what that signified. "But we ran into each other on a few occasions back in our day. I met your mother before she married your father, and I was at the wedding, but we never kept up with each other." Pixis shrugged. "You'll find as you live your life that you lose little friendships along the way that you regret misplacing, so you try to find them again. It's not the same."

Eren sat quietly. He felt a little better now that Pixis was actually explaining what the fuck was happening, but he was still angry. But he nodded anyway. "So, I'm guessing you ain't here for a little catchin' up," Eren said bitterly.

"And you are?" Pixis quirked an eyebrow. Eren flushed, and he looked down at his knees in frustration. "Yes, I thought so. We both want same thing from Grisha. Answers. See, about five years ago Rico came stumbling into my office, and she told me the most interesting thing. Ah, what did you say, exactly?"

"'The government is performing experiments on humans," Rico said impassively, "and I'm one of their subjects. Tell my story.'"

"Lunacy," Pixis laughed. "But I've never really trusted your government all that well, so when I found out it was true, I can't say I was surprised."

"Wait," Eren said softly. His anger had dulled considerably as he tried to digest all this information. "The government?"

"Yes," Rico said, staring at him with her thick eyebrows furrowing. "Didn't you know…?"

"Well, we knew that there was some faction of it involved," Eren admitted. "But I had no idea it was like, all legit and government official."

"Technically it's not," Rico said. "The facility has been around for a lot longer than anyone realizes."

"Like… early twentieth century?" Levi asked slowly.

"That's when it really got some financial backing," Rico said quietly. "But if I've done my homework correctly, this entire thing predates your _Revolutionary War_."

"Um," Eren said. "That's… a long time ago, wow."

Rico glanced at him. Levi sighed from beside Eren, and he shook his head. "Eren," Levi said, "if Rico's right about this, then the facility— or whatever the fuck is running the show behind the scenes— is older than the United States."

"Oh." Eren's eyes flashed wide. "Oh! Holy shit!"

"Yeah." Levi rolled his eyes. "Do you need tutoring?"

"No, I do not," Eren said. "I'm not bad at history. I just blanked out there."

Levi decided to ignore him. "How did you find out this information, Rico?" Levi asked. Eren could sense his suspicion in the way his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, and the harshness of his usually level tone.

"Amongst other things, I found a girl who works for a government funded network," Rico said with a sigh.

"Our rivals," Pixis said excitedly, his old eyes sparkling. "I can't wait until we can finally deliver the story that shuts them down."

"Are you talking about _The Brigade_?" Eren asked slowly.

"Oh," Pixis said with a teasing frown, "don't tell me you're a fan."

"No," Eren said. He shifted uncomfortably on the floor, and looked around his father's apartment. "No, we just know they're connected to the institution in some way."

"Well, they're personally funded by the same person," Rico said bitterly.

Eren knew without having to ask. It was falling into place, the confirmation of things that they had all only suspected until this point. It was what they had built the three missions around. So he sat and contemplated what to do next. His father had vanished, fled the scene very quickly before Eren could find him, and that hurt. He checked his cell phone, and saw that he had gotten another snapchat from Armin. This one had a caption.

_Cinderella is ready for the ball_.

Mikasa was leaning against the kitchen counter in a dress made of heavy crimson fabric, some kind of velvet layered over silk layered over chiffon, with bright red lace crawling from beneath the plunging neckline of the initially strapless dress onto her shoulders and down her arms in clinging, bloody ivy. The dress had not had the lace sleeves until after Hange realized that no strapless dress would ever fit Mikasa, no matter the adjustments or the tailor. She just didn't have the chest for it, or something. So this was the alternative. Something a little audacious, a little too eye-catching for someone as introverted as Mikasa. Her dark eyes were glued to the camera, and her tongue poked out of her shiny red lips at Armin. Ymir was standing behind her in a suit, her hair slicked back, and the odd girl tilted her head back to get her face further into the shot.

Eren showed the picture to Levi, who stared at it for only a moment before looking away. "Nice," he said quietly. But Eren noticed him steal another glance at the screenshot, blinking once, twice, and it was clear that he didn't seem to know how exactly to react. _Maybe it's like seeing your daughter go to prom, or something_, Eren thought.

"America is corrupt," Rico said dully. "Your entire country is built revolving around this facility, this— this quest for immortality! Did you know that there are three facilities? The one we were in when we escaped, it was the most recently built, but it was also the least helpful. It doesn't have the type of information that will help us bring down whoever is in charge of this entire thing."

"Are you saying," Levi said with narrowed eyes, "that Reiss is not the one in charge?"

Reiss. The most shocking thing to come out of Hange's finds at the institute was that name as the foremost benefactor to the cause. The three missions were built upon the information gathered. Grisha Jaeger's address. President Reiss. _The Brigade_. Eren felt a little sick as he tried to sort it all out in his head, what all this meant, all this government conspiracy stuff. _My dad was in the military_, Eren thought. _He never told me that_.

"Reiss is most definitely not in charge," Pixis said, taking a swig from his Canadian pride flask. "If anything, he's a glorified pawn in this game of chess. A benefactor and a figurehead, nothing more."

"Then," Eren said quietly, awed by what Pixis was saying, "if Reiss is just a puppet, then… then who's…?"

"Running the show?" Pixis asked. "Running the country? Who knows. Who knows how long this has been going on. Like Rico said, Maria was the last facility to be built. Sina, which is in Massachusetts, was the first. It was built in the early 1900's. The records there go back years and years— Rico found death certificates dated from the Salem Witch Trials, in fact!"

"That's…" Eren struggled to find his voice. His body felt numb as he realized, truly, what kind of situation they'd landed themselves in. "That's… amazing."

"That's terrifying," Levi corrected. He closed his eyes, and Eren saw his jaw clench in rage. "No wonder everything sucks so bad."

"Okay," Eren said, his heart thundering. He turned his eyes to Pixis, his fists clenching in his lap. "Okay, fine. Our president not only funded our experimentation, but he's also probably not really authentic at all. That's fuckin' dandy." Eren rose to his feet unsteadily. "Now tell me. What the fuck do you know about the fire?"

Pixis looked surprised. "Your father told me about it," the old man said very gently. "I was going to do a story on it, but he called me up last minute and told me that I had to scrap it. That he couldn't put his son in that kind of situation." Pixis smiled grimly, and he took another swig from his flask. "If I had known what he was doing, I'd have exposed him before any of this human experimentation nonsense could have happened."

Eren found himself stunned. Because this was not what he'd expected. He'd thought that Pixis had to know something he wasn't telling anyone. It was just the way he was, the way he looked like he was harboring some delicious secret, and everyone was a fool in comparison. It was infuriating, and yet Eren couldn't help but believe him. So he very slowly dropped back to the floor, and stared at the little wallet photograph of himself and his mouth laughing at a camera. And his lips began to tremble.

"Eren," Pixis said gently. "I do have a question for you. About the fire."

"What?" Eren asked, his voice thick. He didn't look up from the photograph. "What do you want?"

"Well," Pixis said, "I wanted to know what happened to the girl they found alive in the house. Do you know who she was?"

Eren looked up. He stared at Pixis in wonder, his mouth going dry, and his mind backpedaling as it tried to process this information. A girl. In his house. But no, that couldn't be, wouldn't he have remembered? Wouldn't his father have noticed? Eren could remember being stuck outside, stuck and weeping because he couldn't move, he couldn't do anything to save his mother. It had only been just the two of them, hadn't it? Eren and his mother.

But in truth, he could not remember. All the details were fuzzy now.

"A girl?" Eren asked, bewildered. "What _girl_?"

Pixis studied Eren's face, and he frowned. The lines around his mouth deepened. "I'm sorry," Pixis said with a chuckle. "I might be mistaken."

"Yeah," Eren said. "You definitely are. There wasn't no girl there, kay? I'd remember that."

Pixis just nodded. He looked at Eren, and there was something very off about him. About this entire conversation. Something was wrong, but Eren could not put his finger on it. _There was no girl_, Eren told himself. _There was no one. Just me and mom_. Eren began to tremble, his fingers making oily smears across the face of the photograph in his fist, and he could hear the shallowness of his breath, taste bile crashing onto his tongue, and he hated his father so much in that moment for doing this to him. _But I wanted this_, Eren recalled numbly. _I wanted to be strong. I wanted him to do this, and he did it, and it's all my fault, everything is my fault, isn't it?_

"Eren," Levi said quietly. It was as though he could sense the approach of a full blown panic attack, and he sounded a little terrified.

So Eren rounded on him.

"How many adults were there at the institute?" Eren asked furiously. Levi's eyes narrowed. "How many kids? How can we possibly know now, since there was three of 'em? How do we even know there was three— there could be hundreds of 'em! We just don't know, right? We don't know anything about this!"

"The one in Massachusetts, Sina," Rico said, "is abandoned. Looked like it has been that way for quite a bit of time."

"As for Maria," Pixis said, "Rico said that she knew of three other participants to the experiment, but she can't be sure if that's all there was."

"Three," Eren said blankly. He glanced down at Levi, who sat glumly with his legs folded, and his chin tucked to his chest. "Levi, Erwin, and…?"

"Some woman named Rose," Rico said. Eren saw Levi shift in discomfort, his eyes rising to meet Rico's. He looked irritated.

"Rose?" Eren tried to figure out if that name was familiar to him, but no. He didn't think he'd ever met a woman named Rose before. "What was her power?"

"She didn't have one," Levi said softly. He was glaring at Rico, his shoulders squared. "She went crazy after her procedure."

"No," Rico said, blinking at Levi. "I thought she was crazy before, and the procedure was meant to remedy that."

"No, she wasn't," Levi said. "Also, Rose wasn't her real name."

Rico's eyes flashed with curiosity, and she leaned forward. "Did you _know_ her?" Rico asked very quietly. "Is that why you were so upset when they moved her?"

"I was upset," Levi said, "because they drove her crazy, and then got rid of the collateral. It made me realize how disposable we were to those people."

Rico gave short, bitter laugh as she leaned back. "Levi had to be sedated," she informed them, never looking away from Levi's somber face. "He punched a hole through a wall."

"How did you know her?" Eren asked, blinking in wonder at Levi.

"I worked with her," Levi said very dully, "when I was younger."

"Why didn't you ever tell anyone?" Eren asked, shifting so he was sitting on his knees. "We're supposed to be finding people from the institute, aren't we? How come you never told us about her?"

"Because, Eren," Levi sighed, "she's a lost cause. Wherever they sent her, I'm sure it's better than what we could give her. My problem wasn't that they were taking her away— it was that they took away her mind, and then when they realized how royally they'd fucked up, they abandoned her case."

"You don't care where she ended up?" Eren asked furiously. "What if they killed her, huh?"

"They didn't," Levi said.

"How do you know that?"

"They'd bring her back every month or so," Rico said. She folded her arms across her chest, and glanced at Pixis. "Maybe to see if they could fix her."

"So they didn't totally abandon her," Eren said quietly, relaxing a little.

"Did you miss the part where they drove her to fucking insanity, or…?" Levi rolled his eyes. "Anyway, if you're really all wound up about this, we can track her down. But she's not gonna be any help to us. The last time I saw her, she just looked at me and asked me if her hands had disappeared."

Eren might have laughed if Levi's words hadn't sounded so eerily familiar. _My hands have disappeared_, Eren thought, blinked down at his own dark, skinny fingers. _Huh_. It was like someone had put on an old song that Eren had known from years and years ago, and Eren knew the words by heart, but he couldn't quite recall when or how he'd memorized them. It was a tickling, nostalgic feeling.

"What do you two plan on asking Grisha?" Pixis asked, glancing between them.

"Just…" Eren hadn't really thought about it. He'd been planning on letting the conversation take its course. "I don't know. Why, I guess."

"Why." Pixis smiled wanly. "Why did he do this to his own son? Or why he did it in general?"

"Both," Eren said, though he knew why his father had done it to him. "And, how, I guess. How this was possible."

"Rico," Levi said. He looked a little small, like a child shrinking in apprehension. "I never asked, but why…?"

"Why," Rico said, her eyes narrowing, "did I consent to experimentation?"

"Yeah." Levi glanced at Eren, who was keenly aware of how uncomfortable the man was very suddenly. "I don't know why anyone signed onto the project except for me. Erwin won't say anything, Rose was never reliable. You didn't talk to anyone."

"That's because you were all rather strange, and a little off," Rico said. "But, whatever. I got sick when I was still going for my degree. I couldn't pay off my student loans and my hospital bills." Rico rested her head on the back of the sofa, and she sighed. "I almost just dropped everything and moved back home. My mum would have liked that. She didn't know I was sick, and she never will now, but I saw an opportunity."

"And," Levi said, "you took it."

"Yes." She sat up straight, and her pale eyes narrowed at him. "What about you?"

Levi frowned. He sat quietly, his bony hands resting on his knees. Eren could hear a clock ticking away in the kitchenette. He could hear the rushing of cars thrumming past in the street outside. He could hear the muffled laughtrack of a television in an apartment next door. He was itching to fall asleep, his exhaustion creeping up on him. The apartment smelled clean, like the lilac soap his mother always had in the bathroom, the scent of Eren being lifted up in order to reach the faucet, the scent of his mother's soft hands as she wiped his tears with the pad of her thumb, and slapped a bandage on Eren's skinned knee, laughing that he was so reckless, what was she gonna do with him, the scent of her hair when she let him crawl onto her back while she watered her flowers, the scent that suddenly intermingled with something burning, ashes tickling his nostrils, and he thought for a moment that he was going to throw up.

"I had an addiction problem," Levi said. "And… it was shitty. So…"

"Was it really that bad," Rico said, "that you sold yourself to science?"

Levi exhaled shakily through his mouth. Rico stared at him, and Eren stared at him, and Pixis took a swig from his flask, looking around the apartment with vague interest in his wizened face. Levi had gone very pale, as though he'd just been given his life sentence, as though he was waiting for a diagnosis, as though he'd just realized how incredibly fragile life was.

"Yes," he said quietly.

It didn't seem to go well with Rico. She studied him suspiciously. "You know," she said, "that's clearly not all. But, I'll let you have your privacy."

Levi's jaw shifted, and he rose to his feet. "There are other addresses," he said suddenly. He didn't look at Rico or Pixis, who watched him with very different expressions of surprise. "Tag along if you want, I don't give a fuck."

Eren jumped to his feet, throwing a glance at Rico and Pixis, and then following Levi across the room. Levi entered a room, and Eren went after him, blinking rapidly as Levi slammed the door shut behind them. He was glaring at the floor, his jaw tight, and his shoulders trembling.

"Are you okay?" Eren asked slowly. He looked around, and saw that they were in his father's bedroom. It was very neat and tidy, a twin bed pressed against the far wall, an armchair in the corner beside a lamp and a small bookshelf, and a heavy oaken desk. Levi stood with his back pressing to the door, and he shook his head.

"I don't trust them," he said quietly. His eyes flashed, and he pressed his head closer to the door.

"They gave us a lot of information, though," Eren pointed out.

"I don't care."

Eren frowned. He knew that Levi had trust issues, but Rico and Pixis had basically spilt some major shit without considering the ramifications, so Eren didn't see why they couldn't just trade information. But Levi stood, his lips pressed thinly together, and Eren realized that there was something bothering the man.

"Did you recognize her?" Eren asked. "At the platform? Is that why you were so mean to her?"

Levi glanced at him. "I thought she looked familiar," he said, his voice very low. He was still listening to whatever Pixis and Rico were saying. "Then Pixis called her Rico, and I figured it had to be her. But I don't think she recognized me until after."

"Why?" Eren asked curiously. "Do you look all that different from way back then?"

"It wasn't that long ago," Levi said. "And, yeah. I look a lot healthier now."

"Healthier?" Eren was surprised, and Levi pushed off the door, marching up to the desk and sitting down.

"Go to sleep," Levi said.

"I'm not tired," Eren lied.

Levi pulled open a drawer, and pulled a thicket of papers from it. "I don't care," he said. "We're going to be travelling. Our mission isn't over until we find your father. So go to fucking sleep, because I'm not carrying you all across Europe, you shitfaced brat."

Eren sighed, and he kicked off his shoes, glaring up at the ceiling. "I have school," Eren reminded.

"If we don't find him by Monday, we'll go home," Levi said, flipping through the papers at the desk. Eren flopped onto his father's bed, and he pulled out his phone. It was midnight, now. How had time gone by so quickly? He had another snapchat, this one from Mikasa, but it ended up just being Sasha and Connie making obnoxious faces at the camera in-costume. Connie had received a bright green suit that would allow him to go faster, without the restrictions of normal material, and goggles so he'd be able to see better through the wind. Sasha had received a new green hood, which was long-sleeved and heavily armored for the sake of her lack of powers. She had a black mask over her eyes, not dissimilar to the one Eren wore as Rogue.

"You know," Eren said resting his phone on his chest as he stared up at the spackled, egg white ceiling, "I remembered something. About my dad."

Levi said nothing. Eren listened to the sound of papers flipping, and the soft murmuring of two voices from beyond the door. He thought about Mikasa, whose mission was the most dangerous of the three, and he closed his eyes. He wished he were there instead of here, in his father's room, breathing in the scent of lilac soap and exhaling the taste of ashes.

"I remembered," Eren continued, "that after my house burned down, I was so… I was angry, and I wanted to… to be stronger." Eren listened as the papers stopped fluttering. "So I told my dad to make me strong, and he… he didn't really want to, or anythin', I don't think. He just kept sayin' my name, like that'd change my mind, like I didn't know what I was sayin', but I did, y'know?" Eren blinked his eyes open, and he almost laughed. "I wanted to be stronger, and I told him, I said, "If you can't make me strong, then get away from me." Maybe he did me a favor, givin' me my power. It's not like I didn't get what I wanted."

"You were a kid," Levi said. "You didn't know what you wanted."

Eren turned onto his side, watching Levi's back as he began to short out the papers again.

"You were an adult," Eren said. "Did you know what you wanted?"

Levi's shoulders squared. "Yes," he said.

"Do you regret it?" Eren asked.

"No."

"Why?" Eren couldn't help but pry— it was in his nature. Levi's head bowed as his body went rigid. "Why'd you do it? You knew what you were signin' up for, right? So why'd you do it?"

Levi did not face Eren. He did, however, turn his face toward a wall, and stare at it for a long time. A minute ticked by. Eren inhaled lilacs, and exhaled ashes. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt sleepy, and nauseous, and he felt sad. Eren wasn't stupid. He knew there was more than that addiction shit that Levi had told Rico. There had to be, just by how he'd reacted to the question. But he had to have known it was coming, since he'd pried into Rico's business, right? Eren didn't know. He closed his eyes, and breathed in the scent of his mother's hair.

"I tested HIV positive."

Eren opened his eyes. _Wait_, he thought, _what?_

He stared at Levi's back tiredly. "So… what…?"

"They cured me." Levi whirled around in the spinning desk chair, and his eyes were a dark, hollow blue as he stared at Eren.

"Is that even possible?" Eren whispered.

Levi stared at him. Eren suddenly saw how fragile this man was, the strongest man in the world, and he saw in his eyes that he wasn't so incredibly callous and cold. He was just tired. And so was Eren.

"I don't know," Levi said. "I guess so."

_How they can cure stuff like that?_ Eren wondered. _And why were we involved?_

* * *

_I don't offer much explanation for the robots. But then again, I don't offer many explanations for anything. I wonder, did this chapter answer any questions at all, or did it just prepose new ones?_

_I remember writing this ending and debating not doing it, because I know it's a serious topic, and I don't mean to be so careless with it. I wanted to write it in to shed some light on how desperate Levi was when he was approached about this experimentation deal. I was talking to Angie about it, when I was still on the fence about it, and she told me that it made sense. I know I've been glazing over Levi's past, throwing little things out there, but they're all pretty heavy on their own, and accumulated? I don't think I could ever actually go into depth with it. And I don't think I need to._

_This chapter was written because I, personally, am very fond of Levi growing fond of Eren in a fatherly sense. I think Levi's a terrible father, of course, but I'm pretty damn attached to the idea that he has such a soft spot for kids that they just flock to him. I despise ereri in any form other than platonic, so don't even bring it up to me. If I had the time, I'd give each kid a fun little side mission chapter with Levi. But since there are time constraints, I'll stick with trying to flesh out Levi's relationships with Mikasa, Eren, and Armin. _

_There's actually so much I have to say about this chapter, but I'd just go on forever. Just remember that Levi is a socially awkward asshole who is responsible for way too many kids. Never forget. _


	13. there is a god within us

_**est deus in nobis**_

**Washington D.C.**

_a.d. vi Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C._

"Ackerman, Ackerman… I think I know a pair of Ackermans— they live out West, do you know them? I think they moved recently from Los Angeles…"

Mikasa spotted Ymir serving a lady not too far away, and the freckled girl glanced at Mikasa and smirked. This was the absolute worst. Mikasa had never been to a party like this before. Sure, Jean and Marco had dragged her to a few parties when she had still gone to school with them, but that was different. She hadn't really minded those, because at least she could make it her job to become Jean's monitor when he got too shitfaced. This, though? This was terrible. She felt stifled, and a little lightheaded with all the perfume and the false smiles. Who even _were_ these people? Celebrities and politicians? It wasn't like Mikasa knew or cared about any of them.

"And by the way, Miss Ackerman, you're very beautiful. I'm sure you get that a lot, but really, you walked in and captured everyone's attention, didn't you?"

Mikasa wasn't even sure who she was talking to. She'd been trying to find Hange, and some couple had pulled her aside. They'd known who she was before she'd even introduced herself. It was creepy, and a little infuriating. She'd ended up saying her name even after they'd addressed her, and she felt foolish and awkward. Ymir was still smirking at her, her limp brown hair slicked back as she held out a tray of shrimp to a senator's wife.

"Hange better keep you close, you know. I'll bet you have boys lining up to date you, hm?"

Mikasa blinked rapidly at the question. She heard Ymir snort, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting that she really needed to get some air. Hange had warned her about this. They'd said that everyone at these galas were nosy, and not to worry to much. And to smile, if possible. But Mikasa wasn't smiling. She was ready to break someone's arm.

"No," Mikasa said. "I don't like attention."

"Oh, that's all right. You're just shy. It's sad, though— your predicament. Will Hange adopt you too, do you know?"

Mikasa turned away. Ymir had bumped into the man and woman who had stopped Mikasa, and now she was apologizing with her strange, thick drawl. Mikasa made a mental note to thank her later. Mikasa didn't know how she'd been chosen to be Hange's trophy charity case for this particular party. Perhaps because she was the only one aside from Annie who had been with Hange long enough for the media to know who she was. Eren and Armin had been selected specifically for different missions, so it was on her to be the distraction.

Hange had selected Mikasa, Ymir, Reiner, Bertholdt, Connie, and Sasha for Beta Squad. Mikasa was to accompany Hange to a gala that the president was supposed to be attending. Hange had apparently been able to swing that shit. That's how much power Hange had. Mikasa was bewildered, and a little scared, because what exactly did Hange do to get that much respect?

Their goal was basically to pull off some_ National Treasure 2_ shit. They were going to try and get President Reiss to admit his involvement in the institute. Once they did that, they were going to blackmail him in order to get a proper meeting with him so he'd answer their questions.

"Look at you," Armin said that morning after taking a picture of her getting her makeup done. Ymir had been the one to do that. She had said that where she came from, getting all dolled up took way more time, and to be thankful for the shit she had. Mikasa was surprised at how efficient Ymir had been, and the girl looked rather proud of herself. Christa had been doing Mikasa's hair when Armin had walked in. "You look prepared to gut someone."

"That's the desired effect," Mikasa said dryly. Annie was leaning against the wall, already dressed in her new suit. She looked like a bruise, black and blue and yellow. It was kind of like an over-sized blue sweatshirt, or a tunic, or something. She looked comfortable, at least. "When are you leaving?"

"An hour or so," Armin said, tucking his phone into his pocket. "We have to debrief Marco and Jean, so…"

"Right…" Mikasa still had a bad taste in her mouth thinking about how her powerless friends were now apparently part of their team. She told Erwin that they were going to get themselves killed, but Erwin assured her that it would go smoothly. He infuriated her as much as Levi did.

"None of you think having two fellas without any abilities to speak of might be like adding some dead weight to your squad?" Ymir asked from Mikasa's bed. She'd collapsed there after doing Mikasa's makeup, though she needed to get ready soon as well. Hange had somehow managed to get three serving positions available for Ymir, Bertholdt, and Reiner to fill at the gala. Connie and Sasha would not attend, but would wait at an appointed place until they had Reiss apprehended.

"Hange hasn't got any abilities," Armin pointed out.

"Hange's got _money_," Ymir said, rolling her head until it hung off the side of Mikasa's bed. "And influence. See, me and you, little blond one, we've got our awful specialness— but Hange's got power. The kind we _don't _got."

No one could argue with that logic, so Christa quickly changed the subject. "You have such pretty hair, Mikasa," the tiny girl said. "It's perfect for braiding."

That was interesting to her, because she'd never braided it before. "It used to be longer," Mikasa said. "But Levi told me that having long hair is a tactical fuck up, since anyone can just go and grab it. So I cut it."

"Have you ever thought about growing it out again?" Christa asked.

"Nope."

"You know what's funny," Ymir said, slipping off the bed. "None of you have any trouble believing the president is behind the experimentation. Sure, there was some shock here and there, but I'll bet after you thought about it a little, you weren't all that surprised."

"Well, it's not all that surprising, is it?" Christa asked quietly, her dainty fingers working at pulling Mikasa's braids behind her head. "He's a terrible president. I don't know why… why anyone would vote for him…"

"Well, for one," Ymir said, "he's white."

Mikasa had nearly laughed at that, and Ymir high fived her triumphantly. Armin adjusted his glasses, and he shrugged. "I think it boils down to media coverage," Armin said. "_The Brigade_ was totally all for his campaign."

"And _The Brigade_ is completely corrupt," Annie said, "right?"

"Well, that's what we're going to find out," Armin said. Christa pinned Mikasa's hair, and exhaled in relief.

"There we go," she said. "Done."

"Great…" Mikasa glanced at herself in the mirror. She tilted her head. She looked… fucking weird.

The fact that President Reiss was involved in the institute didn't surprise Mikasa. What surprised her was that it was information so easily stolen. And, besides, it was clear that whatever role the man played, he'd played it before he became president. So there was that.

_But still_, Mikasa thought, glancing around for Hange at the gala. _Why would Reiss get involved with something like human experimentation? What's the purpose?_

She had not idea. That was the trouble. They didn't know what was going on, they didn't know anything, and it was terrifying. Even Erwin seemed to be a little lost, with all his precognition and all his planning. There was something rotten that they were all collectively unearthing, and the closer they got to it, the more the world seemed to bake in its decaying glory.

"Refreshment, miss?"

Mikasa glanced up at Reiner's beaming face, and she wanted to punch him. She was not in the mood for any of this bullshit. "Have you seen Hange?" Mikasa asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"Nope," Reiner said. "Not since they tagged that senator— oh shit." Reiner raised his platter up to cover his face, and Mikasa stared at him blankly.

"What?" she asked, glancing around. She saw nothing but a faceless crowd, chattering and buzzing with small talk she didn't care for.

"The guy who kidnapped Christa's here," Reiner hissed, peeking over his tray. Mikasa followed his gaze, and her eyes landed on a middle-aged priest chatting idly with a woman several yards away.

"The priest?" Mikasa asked.

"Yeah." Reiner groaned, and he attempted to hide behind Mikasa. "If he recognizes me, this is over. Just to put things into perspective, Bertholdt possessed him, probably caused some real mental damage, and then Marco smacked him over the head with a baseball bat. He's not gonna be happy to see me."

"Marco did what?" Mikasa had to think about it. Marco. Genial, assuring, benevolent Marco Bodt. Hitting a priest over the head with a baseball bat. Amazing.

"He cracked the dude's head almost clean open," Reiner said, grinning toothily. "Swear to god."

"Might want to avoid that," Mikasa told him, watching the priest vacantly. "Since, you know, you attacked a priest."

"I didn't know you were religious."

"I'm not," Mikasa said.

"Then no worries," Reiner said, smiling tightly. "Anyways, people like us, we don't exist in the eyes of gods."

Mikasa stood quietly, trying to digest his words. The priest turned around, and Reiner bolted so fast that Mikasa had to flatten her skirt so the breeze wouldn't kick it up. She blinked at the elder man, who was watching Reiner's retreating form with a blanching face, his lips pressing together thinly. Mikasa, who was alone yet again, figured it couldn't hurt to see if she could get some answers out of him. _He kidnapped Christa_, Mikasa thought, drifting closer to the man. _I wonder why_.

"Excuse me," the priest said to her, before she even made her move to speak to him. "Young lady, would you happen to know who that man was?"

"Um…" Mikasa stood awkwardly with her arms pinned at her sides. She looked away, and then back at the priests face. "A… waiter…?"

The priest stared after Reiner, his shoulders squared and his eyes very wide. Mikasa could sense the danger in this man's fear of Reiner, so she cut between him and his view of the retreating blond. "Father, I had a question," Mikasa said, her mind reeling to actually find a question to ask.

"Hm?" The man glanced at her, and he quickly composed himself. "Yes, I'm sorry, what did you say, child?"

_I'm not a child_, Mikasa wanted to snap. "I have a question," Mikasa said slowly. She stood awkwardly as the priest nodded and turned his full attention to her. She blinked, and looked down, swishing the skirt of her dress idly, her jaw clenching. She didn't have a question. What was she supposed to ask? The priest just stared at her expectantly, and she was just swishing her skirt like a little girl, completely and utterly oblivious. She hated this.

"Well, what's the question?" the priest asked her gently.

"It's…" Mikasa looked around her for Ymir, or Hange, or anyone to save her. "It's… a good one, it's…"

"Are you alright?" The priest watched her worriedly. "You look very pale."

Mikasa nodded, and then she paused. What did people discuss with priests, anyway? She tried to think, tried to dredge up all the things her teachers had come to her with, begging her to see the guidance office, or a therapist, or _someone_. She exhaled sharply, silk and chiffon clenched in her fingers, and she wished someone else had been given this stupid mission.

"I wanted to ask," Mikasa said, her voice very distant. "I mean… see…" She glanced down at her wrist, where a heavy silver cuff was hiding her tattoo. "My… father… has had some problems with addiction, and I've been worried lately that he'll relapse." Mikasa was surprised at herself. She'd been meaning to lie, but what had come out had been an almost truth. She threw a glance at the woman watching them, a scathing look that cause the woman to whirl away.

"I see," said the priest. "How long has he been suffering from this addiction?"

"I don't know," Mikasa said. She looked around the room. _Come on_, Mikasa thought. _Somebody send a signal so I can get out of here_.

"Well," the priest said, his voice still very soft, "I think the best thing you can do for your father is to be supportive when he's struggling. I know many good men who have succumbed to gluttony in the past, and I understand your concern, but you must be strong for him—"

"I'm strong," Mikasa cut in, throwing a glance at the old man. "I'm plenty strong. And so is he. That's the problem."

"Ah," the priest said, "he's stubborn, then? That's good. If he's stubborn, it'll be harder for him to give into temptation. Listen, I'll keep you in my prayers, miss— what was your name?"

Mikasa said nothing. Ymir had briefly passed by, her dark eyes flickering between Mikasa and the priest. Mikasa left the priest where he was and tailed the girl, ignoring the man's shouts after her. Ymir smirked as Mikasa stopped beside her, scratching at her tattoo self-consciously, though she knew no one could see it.

"Having fun?" Ymir asked. Her drawl made Mikasa want to shove her.

"I'm tired of this," Mikasa said. "Aren't you?"

"I don't mind." Ymir's face glowed mischievously, her freckles dancing like dark stars across her warm skin. She was an odd girl, never quite seeming to blend, or want to for that matter. "I like coming to these ritzy joints— it's all the gossip you could ever dream of. But you don't seem the type of gal to care for any of that."

"I don't," Mikasa confirmed. "I'm surprised you do."

Ymir smiled coyly. "The best kept secrets are told when you think no one is listening," she said. She stood up straighter, and jerked her chin ahead of them. "See that girl?" Mikasa followed her gaze to a very sly looking girl who was chatting with Bertholdt, who looked rather uncomfortable. "I caught a good ten minutes of her suspicions of Reiss's indfidelity. And, better yet, she's a journalist. Works for that _Brigade_ paper, or whatever."

"_The Brigade_?" Mikasa stared at the girl. "What's her name?"

"Hitch." Ymir shrugged. "Go on and get her away from Bertl, will you? My boy's got some skinning to do."

"Right." Mikasa brushed past Ymir and moved toward Bertholdt, who stood uncertainly as Hitch continued to gab senselessly at him. Mikasa stood for a moment beside her, listening as she spoke about some politician standing not too far away, and his torrid affair with one of his maids. Bertholdt looked at Mikasa, and she could see the desperation in his eyes.

"Can you get me a pop?" Mikasa asked Bertholdt. He looked at her, and nodded eagerly.

"Y-yes," he gasped, ducking away from Hitch, who stood stunned for a moment.

"Huh." She rounded on Mikasa. "That was rude. Who are you?"

"Mikasa," she said. Once again she found herself looking for Hange.

"Oh," Hitch said, her cat-like eyes flickering as she gave Mikasa a once over. "Ooh. Right. You're Hange Zoë's new orphan, right?"

Mikasa stood, tightlipped and bemused, and she nodded very slowly. Hitch grinned, the sort of wide, curling smile that seemed to be plastered infinitely onto her pale face. She faced Mikasa fully, lifting her glass to her lips as she stuck out her bony hand, her expertly manicured nails sharpened until claw-like in manner. For the umpteenth time that night, Mikasa felt as though she had missed something, some crucial lesson taught in primary schooling— how to hold some sort of social grace while undoubtedly being low in moral fiber. Mikasa shook Hitch's hand, wondering how many bones she could break depending on the sort of pressure she could apply. _Stop_, Mikasa told herself. _You're being sadistic. That's not you. That's not who you are. _But then, when had she ever cared before?

"I'm Hitch," the girl said, peeling her fingers away from Mikasa's skin. She tossed her pale, fluffy hair behind her ear, and she glanced around. "You know, I've heard a lot about you."

"Really?" Mikasa wasn't surprised. Everyone seemed to know her here.

"Yes," Hitch said, her smile still tight on her glossy pink lips. "Oh, everyone loves you. So stylish and demure, like a little porcelain doll." Mikasa blinked rapidly as Hitch pinched her cheek, and she took a step back instinctively. "It's really very cute, you know. How long has Hange had you in her clutches?"

"Their," Mikasa corrected.

Hitch rolled her eyes. But she nodded. "Right, right, sorry," she sighed. "_Their_. Always forget."

"Yeah…" Mikasa eyed Hitch cautiously. "And if you're asking how long I've been living with Hange, it's been about a month and a half."

"That's not very long at all," Hitch cooed, her smile slightly disheartened. "But wasn't there sort of an influx of kids in that house? Like she— _they_, sorry— bought an orphanage or something?"

"Hange doesn't turn anyone who needs help away," Mikasa said. "So they don't."

Hitch laughed. "Wow," she said. "I guess there really are angels in this world. So you don't feel a little out of place with Hange?" Hitch tilted her head, her eyes glimmering. "Ever?"

Mikasa frowned. "No," Mikasa said. _Unless you count now_, she thought.

"Huh," Hitch said. "Well. Oh hey, isn't that Hange over there?" Mikasa followed Hitch's gaze. "And talking to the _president._ Isn't she special?"

"They," Mikasa corrected. Hange met her eye, and they winked. They were wearing a designer suit, and for this occasion they were wearing contacts. They'd even combed their hair, so the ponytail they wore was not quite messy, but rather a little tussled.

"Yeah," Hitch said. "So how did they spring that?"

"What?" Mikasa blinked at her, and Hitch shrugged.

"Getting so chummy with the pres," Hitch said. "You know."

"I don't know," Mikasa said. "Why are you here?"

Hitch smiled then, and it was a devilish, knowing smile. And she winked. "You're definitely smarter than anyone here gives you credit for," she giggled. "I'll give you that one."

_Um, okay, but why? _Mikasa had no idea what she was supposed to assume from that. "Good to know," Mikasa said. She watched Hange, who had turned her back with their arm crossed to face Mikasa. Their thumb was digging into their spine, and then their forefinger. "What do you know about him?"

"The president?" Hitch's acutely shaped eyebrows rose behind her pale, fluffy bangs. "You mean, what super secret things do I know about him?"

Hange's middle finger burrowed into the folds of the back of their suit. "The president shouldn't have secrets," Mikasa found herself saying.

"Everyone has secrets, honey," Hitch said. "Especially Mister President over there. I'm sure you've heard the rumors about his daughter."

"His daughter?" Mikasa blinked rapidly. She had no idea that Reiss had a daughter, but then again, she'd never given a shit about politics before Hange had forced her into this. Four fingers. "He has a daughter?"

"Well," Hitch said, her lips dragging in a shiny, all-knowing grin, and she leaned very close to Mikasa to the point where her perfume overwhelmed all of Mikasa's senses, "he _did_."

"What do you mean?" Mikasa asked. "What happened to her?"

"Well, that's the trouble, isn't it?" Hitch's eyelashes batted innocently as she lifted her chin and glanced around. "One minute, Reiss had this gap-toothed, rosy cheeked, angelic little girl— oh, you could probably find a hundred pictures of her on the internet, she was so close to being a child model, I swear— but then one day she kinda just poofed. He doesn't talk about her. She's never seen. But nobody even questions it." Hitch leaned very close again, and she brushed her fingers against Mikasa's shoulder, jerking her chin over at the president and Hange. "Personally, I think the wife did it."

"How is that even possible?" Mikasa asked, staring as Hange's fingers struck five, and out of the corner of her eye, Mikasa saw Ymir begin to move. "You can't keep something like that a secret."

"You can if you're a Reiss," Hitch said. "Especially if you're a Reiss. Because in the Reiss family, scandal doesn't happen. Trust me, I've taken note of how immaculate their history is on paper. It's such a shame, though." Hitch leaned away from Mikasa, much to her relief, and the woman's grin actually fell. "Historia was a good kid, from what I could tell. I think the official story is that she's off in boarding school, but, like, please." Hitch scoffed. "That girl hasn't been seen in forever, and I heard there was a girl who went missing very recently who looked a whole lot like Historia. But that's just speculation, of course."

Reiner had slipped away, Mikasa saw, his eyes meeting hers at the kitchen door. There was a way out of the building from there, Mikasa knew, and it wasn't guarded. Ymir was nearing Hange. Bertholdt was standing conspicuously in the middle of the massive hall, his head poking out above everyone else's.

"You said," Mikasa said slowly, "that you think his wife had something to do with it?"

"Oh, yeah," Hitch laughed. "Jealous bitch. See, Historia was adopted, officially, but if you look at her with her father, it's pretty clear that girl was his." Hitch sighed loftily. "Well, not long after little Historia kinda vanished— oh my _god_!"

An explosion of gasps, of whispers and shouts erupted as Bertholdt collapsed. A platter went skittering across the floor, and just as a crowd began to form around the limp body over the tall serving boy, Ymir bumped into Reiss and spilt cocktail sauce across the shoulder of his suit.

"Oh," Ymir said, feigning horror rather well, her dark face crumpling and twisting in mock terror. Mikasa saw a pair of Suits already tripping over themselves to get to her. As she spoke, she thickened her accent purposefully, her eyes glinting. "I'm— I am sorry, _Mister President_." She was grabbed by both men very roughly, and Ymir cried out in Spanish. Mikasa saw the men glance at each other.

"No," Reiss said quickly, shaking his head. "N-no, it's fine, it's— please release her, she didn't do anything wrong."

Ymir was let go, and she kept her head bowed, probably to hide a smirk. Hange had taken a step back, and they peered at Reiss's shoulder. "Hey," they said, "you should put some dish soap on that before it sets into the fibers of the fabric. Y'know, if you don't want it to stain."

"Oh," Reiss said, nodding. "Yes, thank you— M-miss, can you show me to the kitchen?"

"Sir—" One of the men in suits objected.

"It's okay," Reiss said, his voice feeble. Mikasa winced. _Bertholdt_, she thought, _needs to work on his acting_. "It'll only take a moment. I'll be right back."

It wasn't working. Mikasa sighed. Onto the contingency, then. "Is that boy _breathing_?" Mikasa asked very, very loudly. He was, of course— just not enough for anyone to tell. In fact, Bertholdt's heart rate dropped so low that he could be pronounced dead. Skinning was incredibly detrimental to his health, and he'd admitted that when they had planned this entire mission. But his power was too useful to not take the chance. Mikasa was aware that if Bertholdt stayed too long outside his body, he could die. If he stayed too long outside his body, he could die, and the body hosting his soul would spit him out, and he'd be lost in some ethereal void.

That had caught the Suits' attention. "Well," Reiss said— or, rather, Bertholdt in Reiss's body, "go on, make sure he's breathing! He could have had a— a heart attack!"

The Suits ended up shoving through the crowd surrounding Bertholdt as Reiss and Ymir headed for the kitchen. Hitch had disappeared amongst the throng circling Bertholdt, and Mikasa met Hange's eye. They nodded at her, and Mikasa made a break for the bathroom. Hange would not be participating in this part. They were too recognizable to disappear so suddenly. Mikasa's red dress was entirely too conspicuous for this occasion, but thankfully they had planned for this. She entered the bathroom, nodding to the woman standing at the mirror and reapplying her lip-gloss. The woman nodded back cordially, and stopped beside her, waiting for her to leave. She stood for a moment, staring at her dress with all its crimson silk glory, vermillion velvet and cherry chiffon curling around her fingers. Mikasa bit her lip. She missed Eren and Armin.

The woman glanced at Mikasa, and she left without a word. Mikasa quickly checked the stalls for anyone else, and then she moved to the garbage can, popping off the lid and withdrawing a black backpack from its depths of paper towels. She entered a stall and tossed a strap of the bag onto a hook, kicking off her heels and stripping her dress off in one fluid motion. She was more or less used to quick changes into her Nio suit, so this was a simple habit for her. She was fully dressed in about three minutes, and she slipped her Nio mask over her face, shoving her dress and shoes into her backpack and zipping it up. She tossed it back into the trash as she passed the mirror, wisps of blue fabric fluttering against her knees. She hopped up onto the windowsill, which was marble and icy against her toes. She eased the window open, and twisted around when a woman entered and gasped. All she would see, of course, would be Nio crouching beside a window. And promptly disappearing.

It was a rather long drop, surprisingly, and Mikasa's bare feet cracked against the pavement. She went sprinting despite that, and there was a little bit of shock, a mild sense of pain where her joints had taken the brunt of the fall. She passed beneath a cover of trees, her toes scraping against twigs and dry, dead leaves, and she felt like a ghost fluttering through the night, not quite there as the wind bit and tugged and lashed at her.

She came to a little alcove in the trees, and she paused as she watched Ymir circle Reiss with a predatory look upon her face. Mikasa listened to the wind whistle breathlessly through the dying leaves, and when she looked up she saw Sasha's hooded face peering down at her from a branch a few feet above. Her foot was lazily swinging back and forth, and she tossed her bow into the air and caught it with ease.

Ymir caught her eye. "Hey, doll," Ymir said. "Nice of you to show."

Mikasa nodded. Reiss turned to face her, and his expression was a little panicked. "Did anyone follow you?" he asked.

"No," Mikasa said. "Not that we're hard to find. Let's do this quickly."

"Kay," Ymir said. "Get ready to take the back seat, Bertl."

Reiss nodded, and he swallowed very hard. Above Mikasa, Sasha stood up on her branch and notched an arrow. "I'm gonna give you five seconds," Sasha said, taking aim. She pulled her bowstring taut as Reiss knelt down. Reiner was standing on the opposite end of the alcove, looking as though he'd rather be somewhere else. Mikasa didn't blame him. This was a very dangerous mission.

Sasha released her arrow, and it struck Reiss's back, enveloping his torso in tight black mesh netting. He cried out as he hit the ground, and Mikasa turned her back to him as Ymir knelt down in the leaves beside him. As she faced the entrance to the alcove, she could see a blur of green flash through the trees. Connie was circling them in order to keep them alerted if anyone actually showed up.

"Hell-_o_ there, Mister President," Ymir chirped. "Bet you don't know me. It's okay. Not many people do, it's swell."

"W-what…?" Reiss sounded absolutely terrified. "What did you do…?"

"Nothin'," Ymir said. "I mean, _I_ didn't, anyways. Didn't your buddy Father Nick tell you about being possessed?"

Mikasa unsheathed her sword. Connie was coming back. He skidded to a stop beside her, and called out, "Hey, Skinner! There's a Suit heading this way, can you get rid of him?"

Reiss sighed, his body jerking a little as Bertholdt's powers took control. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Is he within fifty feet of me?"

"Uh…" Connie glanced at Mikasa, who stared into the darkness. A silhouette caught her eye.

"Yes," Mikasa said.

"Okay." Mikasa listened to Reiss choke on a gasp, and she watched the silhouette freeze, his body buckling. And then he retreated. When Mikasa glanced back at Reiss and Ymir, the girl was still kneeling, but now she was grinning, her dark face lighting up with a ferocious intensity.

"Okay, cool," Ymir said. "Now I'm sure we'll have more time to talk. I hope you don't mind, it's a bit dark—" Ymir snapped her fingers, and a bright white flame licked at the pads of her thumb and forefinger. Reiss inhaled very sharply, jerking away from Ymir, and she grinned against the eerie glow. "There, that's better, don't you think?"

Reiss said nothing. He'd closed his eyes, and Mikasa could hear him breathing very heavily. She couldn't help but feel that this man was spineless. He was already cracking, and Ymir hadn't even begun her almighty plan to break him. She hadn't told any of them what she was going to say, but she assured them it would do the trick.

"You know who we are," Ymir said. "I don't need to tell you. I just need you to say it. You did this. You made children into monsters."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Reiss said. His voice was steady.

"Take a good look around you, pops," Ymir snapped. "You know who did this. Just say it. You know. You helped. You made children into monsters."

"I did no such thing," Reiss said firmly. "Now, if you let me go now, I'm positive you won't be punished too harshly, miss—"

"You made children into monsters," Ymir repeated, "or did you make monsters into children?"

Mikasa saw Reiss's face flash with minute horror. "What did you say?" he whispered.

"Or maybe," Ymir whispered back, stretching her legs. Twigs cracked against the silence, undisturbed by whatever commotion the gala had fired up. Leaves crunched under her feet as she stood on her toes and rocked back and forth. "Maybe _you're_ the monster, Reiss. Think about it. All this power. And all these secrets." Ymir began to whistle a tune, an old tune, a nursery rhyme Mikasa thought she knew. Reiss's face paled in the flicker of Ymir's flame. "What'd you put in Historia's breakfast that morning, anyway?"

Reiss's head snapped up, and he met Ymir's gaze with horror and awe. "What did you say?" he whispered. His entire body was shaking. Mikasa almost pitied him.

"Historia," Ymir said. "Oh, you remember her, I hope? Your daughter. You know, the one you drugged…" Ymir snapped her fingers, and her fire spat into the air in a burst of steely blue light, balling against the air and recoiling back to a subtle flicker around Ymir's thumb. "Put into a coma…" She snapped her fingers again, and the sound cracked and crackled against the quietude, stretching and gasping painfully, an open flame inhaling and dying upon its first breath. "For four years…"

"That's…" Reiss looked shattered at that moment, and he shook his head furiously. "How dare you…? My daughter is—!"

"Alive," Ymir said, "because you let her be experimented on. Right? Did you get guilty last minute? Or was this your plan all along? To make her perfect. Like a goddess." Ymir smiled wanly, and Mikasa found that smile to be the most enigmatic thing to ever grace her sight. "You wouldn't be the first."

Reiss stared at Ymir wildly. "You…" he said, his voice trembling. "Oh. You know where she is, don't you?" He rose shakily to his feet, and Ymir took a step back. She looked surprised, and she shot a glance at Mikasa. "You know where she is. Of course, she… she told you all of this…" Reiss looked half mad as he stumbled toward Ymir, his arms bound by Sasha's netting. "Please, tell me where she is! I have to explain. She needs to know that I never… I never meant…"

"Nobody ever means to hurt the people they love," Ymir said coldly. "Maybe your problem was you loved her too little… or too much. Maybe you wanted to keep her forever and ever, just the way she was." Ymir's fay-like face glowed eerily, a surreal sight in the canopy of trees, black leaves fluttering around her in the shadow of her fire. She looked very suddenly like a fairytale creature, a woodswitch peering over a cauldron, dried brown leaves catching in her windblown hair, or like a nymph watching with dark, glimmering eyes as nature churned around her and began to break and weather a world that could not remain unchanged. Ymir looked, to Mikasa, like a myth in that moment, a beautiful legend that could not possibly be real. "Or maybe you just wanted to save her."

Reiss exhaled shakily.

"_Yes_," he breathed, "yes, I… I _saved_ her."

Ymir stared at him vacantly. She snapped her fingers, and her fire guttered out with a hiss. "You got that, Brawn?" she asked.

"Every word," Reiner confirmed gleefully. Reiss's voice echoed softly in the vacancy of the alcove, hissing through the falling leaves as it trembled and broke, breathing with the shudder of the wind. "Yes_… yes, I… I _saved_ her_." The recording stopped there, but Mikasa knew it went back for a while.

Reiss stood, trembling like a blackened leaf fluttering from overhead, and he crumbled. "My God…" he murmured, sounding close to tears.

"Maybe," Ymir said, glancing at Mikasa. She jerked her chin, and Mikasa sliced the netting from the man's torso. "But only because you made us this way."

That seemed to shake him. "You'd compare yourselves to gods?" he croaked.

"Gods," Ymir sighed, "monsters, children… It's all the same. You people can call us what you want, but you never treat us like we are."

They were all about to make a break for their getaway jet, parked inconspicuously on a closed car garage roof. It was cloaked so no one would see it, and it was only about a block away. Hange had a plan if Mikasa didn't show up again. Cramps. That was their big plan. And Mikasa figured it would work. They'd find a way to get a hold of Bertholdt too, she was sure.

"And what are you?" Reiss asked miserably. He seemed to have realized the position he was in. He would not tell a soul about them, lest he wanted the recording to get out. It was an unspoken deal.

_Heroes_, Mikasa thought bitterly, turning her back to them.

"Human," Ymir said.

* * *

_You tell 'em, Ymir._

_Upon rereading, it kinda sucks that Mikasa doesn't get to bond with Hange more. I guess I was focusing too much on plot things to really buckle down with that one. But, hey, developments? Some... questions...? And no answers...? I actually can't tell for sure, I'm sorry. I'm terrible. I'm a terrible mystery writer. I should just tell everyone everything now._

_Oh man, next chapter is the chapter! THE chapter! The 20k monstrosity that caused an actual breakdown because it was so hard to write! Angie can confirm, I cried real tears while trying to write that stupid fucking chapter. The absolute worst coming at you. Whoo._


	14. tough body

_**corpus callosum**_

**Philadelphia, Pennsylvania**

_a.d. iv Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C._

Too many minds. They grazed him like bullets, leaving blood to pool hot and sticky across his cheeks like red tears, and he hated the metallic aftertaste, the jolt of knowing someone by the flavored thread of their mind. Ice cube shards and dandelions, root beer barrels and rain water, potatoes and pine needles, honey and sun dried figs, chocolate chip cookie dough and cyanide, pepper and baked apples, almond milk and grapefruit, sugar coated whispers and kiwi. Tastes and sensations swirling together in a rapid, overwhelming dissonance.

Firstly, there was Annie. Armin still had trouble recalling her from the blissfully hazy depths of his memory, but he knew that he knew her, and she knew that he'd forgotten. And he thought that maybe she wanted it to stay like that, for the same reason she wanted to stay away from him. Because she feared him. Because his power was something people feared, and that made Armin uncomfortable, because he'd never thought of himself as something fearsome. He wasn't scary, he was just… just… pragmatic.

Annie's connection with Armin was unlike any he'd ever had. Because there was barely a connection. He'd touched her, and cracked a little fissure into her wall of ice, just big enough for his mind to contact hers. But he didn't get the usual blast of negativity, the emotions and the disdain— he got her taste, the painfully chilly brush of a tongue against an ice cube, and the taste of spring air, crisp and heavy with pollen and fresh flowers, and he realized that Annie's taste must have changed since whenever they had last connected, because it was a completely foreign sensation.

Then there was Connie and Sasha. They were like nature had thrown up sugarplums, and they gave him cavities. Jean and Marco were faint thrums of tastes dancing around Armin's mind, mocking him, taunting him, begging him to try and take what he didn't deserve. Their thoughts, their feelings, whatever. Armin avoided them. Their thoughts made Armin's tongue feel heavy, and they were distant, and sweet, but screaming wordlessly, and Armin just didn't want anything to do with them because it was like something was just daring him to tread where he shouldn't, and that terrified him. Reiner was alarmingly natural, but his mind buzzed with anxiety, and Armin hated tuning into his frequency, because it made no sense. It was babble and broken words, broken thoughts, broken blips on a silver screen. Armin saw flashes of red, and he tasted blood, and then he blinked, and it was all gone in a trickle of inconsistent thoughts. Bertholdt just… was incomprehensible.

Armin had too many minds surrounding him. He loved living with Eren and Mikasa, but it was suddenly very overwhelming to have so many thoughts speeding past him when he had once lived alone with Erwin. Whose mind would not yield to Armin's. So now Armin had to avoid getting too close with his new housemates, practically strangers to him, and he would often put on headphones to drown out the hissing, inaudible cacophony. Nobody seemed to notice or worry, though Eren and Mikasa could feel the strain through their unyielding mindlink. They sometimes watched him, their worry palpable in their eyes and in their minds, and he had to shove it away. He didn't want anyone to worry about him. He didn't want anyone to think he couldn't handle this, because… if he couldn't, then what did that mean? What was his use then?

_The Brigade_ had a headquarters in Chicago, which unfortunately had been destroyed by the giant robot attack that was still stealing world news for some reason. Armin felt that no one was asking the right questions. Everyone was focused on the damage done, the economic set back, but no one had once asked who or why. Or even _what_.

After they had gotten home that day from Chicago, a few more kids now taking up residence in the Hange Zoë Home for Peculiar Children, Armin had pulled Annie aside.

"That robot," Armin said, "had your powers."

"What?" Annie glanced him, her droopy eyes flashing in alarm. "What do you mean?"

"It tried to freeze me," Armin said. "It looked at me, and it… it looked like…"

Annie stared at him blankly. Armin could sense her sudden caution, and she tilted her head up at him. "What did it look like?" she asked softly.

_You_, Armin almost said. But he didn't. Because she already knew, and she knew he knew. But neither of them could say it. Even with their feeble, icy link, and the taste of her springtime frost clinging to his tongue, he could not speak to her. He was scared of her, and she was scared of him, and they were stuck because he knew, and she knew that he knew.

But he didn't know what any of it meant, so he smiled tightly, and he said, "It looked like it was alive," he said. _It looked like it was going to cry_, Armin thought. _It looked like you, and you looked like you were going to cry_. That was familiar to him. Had he once seen Annie cry? No, he couldn't imagine.

"That's weird," Annie said dully.

"Yeah," Armin said. He jumped as Eren came bursting into the room, and whistled at them.

"Yo, you two," he said, not even questioning why they were alone together. "One of the newbies wanted to watch _Hercules_. You in?"

"Oh, yeah!" Armin brightened up considerably at the thought. He loved musicals.

Between then and the mission debriefing, Armin had learned a few things about his new housemates. One, Ymir was a little bit of a bitch. She got a kick out of pressing her very warm fingers to Armin's cheek whenever he wasn't paying attention, and he got a blazing sensation, fire enveloping his entire body and licking up his arms and legs and consuming his heart and charring his bones, and when he coughed, blood dribbled from his lips, blood and fire and laughter because _how dare you_, how…? And then Ymir would pull her hand back and _laugh_, as if she'd only pinched him.

Reiner was a vegetarian, and once when Armin had asked if it was for any particular reason, Reiner had responded with a snort. "Well," he said, "I have to be careful with what I eat anyway, because I have a heart condition— a side effect of my power, you know— but man, I cannot even with animals, okay, it physically pains me to imagine killing and eating one."

Armin was beginning to sense a pattern. He spent some time painting with watercolors, trying to remember the pattern when his headaches got bad, but it often made no sense to him. He sat quietly in his room a little after the meeting Hange and Erwin had held to debrief them on their respective missions. Gamma Squad. _The Brigade_. Just reconnaissance. Information gathering too, maybe, if given the chance. Easy stuff.

He turned his music on shuffle, turning it up as he glanced toward the door. He didn't want anyone to hear him. He turned back to his computer, which sat idly at his desk, and he took a deep breath. He hit record.

"Um," he said, the steady sound of One Day More almost drowning him out. "Okay, so this is to me. Future me." He nodded curtly at his webcam. "Because this is important. For me. For you. Yeah…" Armin swung his spinning chair idly, and pulled his legs up to his chest. "So I noticed something recently about our abilities. We, as child experiments, have a five to three ratio of physical, mental, and health defects to the able bodied and minded. And Mikasa and Ymir might not even count, because their abilities are natural."

Armin threw a glance at the door. He dropped one knee, and grabbed the open notebook from beside his keyboard. "Eren Jaeger. His procedure involved a series of injections to the nape of his neck. He spent three months dropping in and out of comas, and when he recovered he was diagnosed with both narcolepsy and diabetes." Armin wrote this down as he spoke, though when he looked down at the words, they didn't look quite right to him. He ignored it.

"Annie Leonhardt. I don't know how her procedure went, because I don't have that kind of access to her mind. Maybe I did once, I don't know, but her skin forms distinctly crystalline blemishes whenever she uses her ability. Her skin also blackens and hardens, like it's frostbitten, but less… ugly. Reiner Braun. His procedure was a series of intravenous injections. He has a heart condition, but I don't know how extreme it is yet. Bertholdt Hoover. His procedure isn't clear to me because his mind is a little too jumbled. I can hear a lot of voices, but none of them are Bertholdt's. He has a mild form of auditory schizophrenia." Armin looked up at his webcam, and he chewed on the cap of his pen thoughtfully. "Armin Arlelt. I was nine when a serum was injected directly into my brain. I now have asthma, when I did not previously." He tossed his notebook back onto the desk. "I also get chronic headaches that are very dull and deep, and nothing seems to take the pain away."

His pen was dangling between his teeth, and he wiggled it pensively. So what was he missing? "Ymir and Mikasa…" Armin murmured. He pulled his pen from his mouth, and he grabbed his phone, flicking through his contacts quickly. He let it dial, and he stuck the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he pulled the notebook back into his lap.

"_Yo_?" Connie asked. "_Armin_?"

"Hi, Connie," Armin said, writing the boy's name down beneath the others. "Um, I have a really weird question to ask."

"_Ooh, this should be good_," Connie said. "_Shoot_."

"No one asked," Armin said, "how you got your speed. So I'm wondering, you know, if… if it's natural, or…?"

"_Oh._" Connie sounded a little surprised. "_Well, uh… okay so when I was eight, I got hit by a car_." Armin's eyes widened, and he quickly put the call on speaker so the recording would pick it up. "_I couldn't move my legs. Like, ever again. That's what the doctors all said, and like, I believed it. But then one day when I wiped out in my wheelchair, I got taken to the hospital, and this nurse lady, Ilse, she came in and talked to me for a little while, and then she like… put some shit in my IV. And the next thing I knew, I was dead, and they had to use those nifty paddle things to bring me back, and when I woke up I was able to move my legs again. Except now I was super fast_."

Armin was a little rattled by how nonchalant Connie was about his own death. "Oh wow," Armin said. "Okay. That's— wait, did you say Ilse?" Armin looked up at his webcam with wide eyes. "What… what did she look like?"

"_Uh_…" Connie groaned. "_Shit, I don't even… that was like six years ago, dude? She had like… dark hair. It was short. And she had a lot of freckles_?"

"_Who_?" Armin heard Sasha ask.

"_Ilse_," Connie told her. "_That crazy nurse that saved me. Oh, and she looked really young. I remember that. And she kinda… man, she was so weird looking, it was like she wasn't even real, like I swear I thought she wasn't until I realized I could move my legs again. Her skin kinda glowed too._"

"_Aw_," Sasha cooed. "_Connie's angel_."

"_Fuck off, Sash'_." Connie sighed. "_Anyway, yeah, that's about all I can remember about her. Why_?"

"Oh," Armin said, biting his lip. He glanced at himself in his recording, his eyes drooping tiredly. His face was a little fuzzy, because Armin was not wearing his glasses. "No reason, I was just taking note of how everyone got their ability. Hey, that Ilse girl, though. Sounds kinda like Ymir, don't you think?"

"_I've never met Ymir_," Connie said. "_I mean, I saw her when we did that video meeting thing earlier, but_…?"

"Right." Armin nodded quickly. "Duh. It's probably just my imagination. Anyway, Connie, thanks for telling me all that. It's got to be a touchy subject."

"_No, not really_," Connie said. "_Yikes, what kind of name is Ymir, anyway_?"

"_What kind of name is Constantino_?" Sasha shot at him.

"_Sasha, __**no**_!" Connie shrieked. Armin smiled, and he spun his chair idly as he listened to Connie and Sasha struggle on the other line. Sasha shrieked. "_Shut the fuck up, stop telling people that, okay? It's getting really— oh my god, she's got Mark's toy helicopter, okay, I gotta go, my mom's gonna kill me if she breaks that_!"

"What is she doing with a toy helicopter?" Armin asked, stifling his laughter.

"_SHE'S FUCKING CHASING ME_!"

Armin couldn't contain his laughter, and he looked at his recording, and he shook his head. He paused it. "You're a speedster," Armin said. "You can take it."

"_I _know, _but_—!"

The door opened, and Armin whirled around in his chair to face Levi. The man glowered at him from the doorway, never passing the threshold. Connie was still shouting from the receiver. "Turn your shitty music off," Levi told him. "It's midnight."

Armin blinked. He hadn't even realized it had gotten that late. He reached back and hit the pause button on his keyboard. "Gotta go, Connie," Armin said, hanging up before the boy could respond. Levi was already closing the door. "Wait!"

Levi paused, and glanced back at Armin. His eyes were narrowed, and they were hollow, and they were piercing. "Um," Armin said, tucking his phone into his pocket. "I was… I was wondering if you could show me the pictures of Ilse Langner you guys found at the institute?"

"Ask Erwin," Levi said. "Not me."

"Right…" Armin said. He pushed his hair behind his ears, and he nodded. He leaned against the door, blinking rapidly as he was overwhelmed with a sudden loss of equilibrium, his heart thundering in his chest as the room shuddered, and the room hissed, and the room shook around him and danced and threatened to cave in on top of him. "Right."

Levi looked at him. The man stepped into the room, and Armin pushed off the door quickly, standing a little shakily as Levi paused. His eyebrows were furrowed, from what Armin could see, but Levi's face was sort of like a white smudge in a bleeding darkness. Armin's head was really, really hurting, and it was worse than usual. _It must be because there're so many people_, Armin thought. _I don't get any peace, not even when I'm asleep. My dreams are theirs_.

"You look gross," Levi said.

"I'm fine," Armin said. "I just got hit with a little bit of vertigo. It happens all the time."

Levi frowned. Armin breathed in deeply, and he felt himself sway a little. But he stayed upright. He'd take a few aspirin, or maybe some Nyquil, and he'd be fine. "Go make Erwin take your temperature," Levi said, whirling away from Armin. "If you're getting sick, you need to stay away from the other kids. I'm not letting a pandemic start under this roof, you got it, blondie?"

"Yes," Armin said weakly.

He felt better once he laid down. Vertigo, headaches, nausea, asthma— his side effects were a nuisance, but it was nothing painfully awful, like schizophrenia, or diabetes, or some obscure heart condition. No, Armin could bear this burden. He had to.

"Hello, Armin," Christa said the morning of their mission. She didn't talk much, the girl who could see and manipulate auras. When they had all explained their powers to one another, Christa had taken a very long time to coherently express what she did. She said that what she saw was a bit like a person's life force. She could take that, and she could make it stronger in order to save a person. Heal wounds, or illnesses. Stuff like that. Armin had wondered why her mind was not reachable, and he realized it was because her power was almost completely mental. Like Erwin, she had a power that counteracted his own. And that was amazing.

"Morning," Armin said. He nudged open a cabinet with his knee and withdrew a box of granola bars. "Did Eren and Levi leave yet?"

"I don't know," Christa said. She sat at the kitchen table, peeling an orange with her thumbnail. "I heard… they were getting an early start because it'll take so long to get there, so maybe."

Armin nodded vacantly. He stiffened as Ymir walked in, and he tried to hide the fact by ripping open a granola bar and sticking it in his mouth. He'd yet to see the pictures of Ilse, and it was bothering him immensely. Ilse Langner, Ymir's supposed grandmother, who had all but a shrine dedicated to her at the institute. No, it wasn't right. There was something he was missing, something he couldn't see. He needed that variable, that clarity.

"Whoa," Ymir said, blinking down at Armin as she fished a granola bar from the box in his hands. "I totally thought you were Christa for just about five seconds. Damn."

"Really?" Christa asked, twisting to face Ymir.

Ymir shrugged. "No," she said. "But almost. You shouldn't wear your hair like that so much." Ymir tussled Christa's low hanging ponytail. "It's confusing."

"Oh…" Christa tore at the skin of her orange, and as Armin chewed his granola bar, he could smell it. The citrus filling the air, burning his nose and stinging his eyes. Armin chewed slowly. He'd woken up with a headache, which was not unusual, but now he was getting the strangest sensation. Like vertigo mixed with a blow from Levi's bony knuckles to the side of Armin's head. Pain spider-webbed through him, striking at his nerves and settling inside his stomach until his gut was fried. It knotted up uncomfortably, and then churned and churned. Armin was still chewing, but the granola was getting caught in his molars, and it wouldn't go down his throat no matter what he tried. So it sat heavily, scratching his tongue.

It tasted like ash. It all tasted like ash. It all felt hot, sweltering, and he felt his clothes turn to writhing flame, and he cowered as a woman reached out, coughing and crawling. Dead woman. There was a voice singing in his head, or whispering, maybe— sugar coated whispers, sugar coated pleas, sugar and fruit and ashes sprinkled on top, an early morning delight. The voice was whispering. Sugar. Ash. Sugar. And the voice was begging, _Make it stop, make the fire stop, please, Ymir, I'll leave, I promise, just make the fire stop_.

_I can't_, he thought wildly, staring down at his naked, flame-engulfed body. He sat in a crumbling kitchen. There was a charring corpse reaching for him. _And besides, you did this, not me_.

Armin shoved Ymir away, her fingers leaving a warm impression on the skin of his forehead. Armin lurched toward the kitchen sink, his fingers finding purchase on the glistening steel, and there was heat crawling all throughout his body, sweat forcing his pajamas to cling to his skinny frame, which buckled as he vomited bile and granola into the shiny metal basin. His stomach spasmed, and released another bout, just enough for him to not be able to catch his breath between the spewing of digestive fluid from his lips.

When he was done, he was heaving, his ribs aching and his legs ready to give out, and as he stared dizzily into the sink, he felt the need to pretend this had never happened. Shame burned him, worse than the fire of Ymir's white-hot memory, and Armin flicked on the faucet to wash the evidence of his incompetence down the drain. It wasn't fair. The only thing he could do was read minds, and even then he couldn't do it right. He got sick because he was too weak to handle the strain.

Armin was still heaving as gathered some water in his cupped palm and attempted to wash his mouth out. He felt a hand on his back, but he couldn't breathe well enough to tell them to stop touching him. He couldn't do it. And when he looked up, water and sick clinging to his lips, he saw Christa and Ymir standing right beside him. Christa reaching up with her orange-stained hands, and she wiped at his mouth with a paper towel. He was still wheezing. There were tears on his cheeks.

"It's okay…" Christa said very softly. Armin stared at her, his shallow breaths echoing in the still kitchen. Christa smiled up at him, and she wiped at his tears with the pad of her thumb. He flinched away from her touch before remembering that she could not hurt him, and then he relaxed, his fingers twitching at his chest as he tried to regain his composure. But he didn't know if he could. He was crying and wheezing in the middle of the kitchen, his throat burning and bile still leaving an acrid residue, and ash still clinging to his tongue, and that only made him cry more. "Ymir, get his inhaler."

"Already ahead of you, _cari__ñ__o_." Ymir held up the small white tube, and Armin wanted to reach for it, but Ymir scared him. He tasted her ashes in his mouth, and he wanted to puke again. "He's got a fever, you know."

"I can feel it," Christa sighed. "Armin, you should go to bed."

He shook his head furiously, and grabbed the inhaler. He took two puffs of it, inhaling deeply, and he rested his back against the sink. He was still breathing very heavily, but the medicine was beginning to take affect. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, and he coughed feebly. "T-thanks, Christa…" he mumbled. He threw a glance at Ymir, but she only watched Armin with a knowing gleam in her eye. "… Ymir."

"Don't sweat it," Ymir said. "You seem pretty down, though. Maybe you should skip out on the mission."

"I'll be fine," Armin informed her curtly. His inhaler was clenched in his fist. "All of this is just from my power overloading. You touching me didn't really help…"

Ymir scoffed, and threw her hands up in defense. "I was only checking you for a fever," she said stiffly. "That sorta thing can kill, you know. Especially someone your size."

"I'm fine," Armin repeated. He glanced at Christa, who watched him with large, worried eyes. "Really. I'll take some Tylenol, and the fever will go right away. You'll see."

"Okay…" Christa nodded slowly. "If you say so, Armin."

"Can you two…" Armin looked between them, feeling suddenly very panicked. "Can you not tell anyone about this? If Erwin finds out, he'll bench me for sure."

Christa looked uncertain, but Ymir nodded. "Yeah, sure," she said with a shrug. Her limp brown her curled across her cheeks as she tilted her head. "But you'll owe me one, buddy boy."

Armin wanted to ask what the ash meant. He wanted to ask her why there was something so horrible in her head. It was one of the most terrible things he had ever witnessed, and he'd only caught a bare glimpse of it, a flicker in a dark, a whisper too sweet to be kind. Armin looked at Ymir, and he realized.

"I'm going to go lay down, actually," Armin said, brushing past both girls. _Bertholdt_, Armin realized, _has possessed Ymir_. But the trouble was that Armin had no idea when or why or what that even meant to him.

They had to pick up Jean and Marco in Chicago and debrief them on how the mission was going to play out. Erwin had already informed them that they were not to engage if they met with any resistance upon entering _The Brigade's_ headquarters in Philadelphia. They were already playing it very close by simply scheduling this mission the same night as Beta Squad's mission. If Beta Squad failed, if they got caught, it would already throw major suspicion onto them.

"Where are your glasses?" Erwin asked Armin as he sat beside him in the cockpit of Hange's plane. He was in charge of making the plane invisible upon take off.

"Contacts," Armin said. He was studying the fibers of his gloves, the brown stains from his or Eren's blood set into the grooves of white thread. Written unsteadily across the dull, faded brown smear, _I can sleep in heaven_. Armin wondered what that was from. It could be anything. He didn't remember the context. He didn't know why his mind was manipulating the ink inside his suit to form those words. Armin didn't know very much, really, he just knew tastes and sensations and bits of information caught in the spider web that was his fractured mind.

Christa and Annie were sitting behind them. They weren't talking. It was so strange, this plane ride, because Armin's mind was so clear. There was no noise, no taste except for the trace of frosty spring air that leaked through the crack Armin had jabbed through Annie's wall of ice. And yet, for all the vacancy in the frequencies, Armin was lost. His head was somewhere else. His heart was not in it.

"We haven't done a mission together in a while," Erwin said, glancing at Armin. Armin stayed silent. He watched the clouds, and words twitched on his white gloves, crawling across bloodstains and laughing at him. If he watched the clouds long enough, the fluffy white bits of water condensed into these blinding, taunting shapes, perhaps they would become words too. "In fact, we haven't talked much at all lately."

"There's not much to talk about," Armin said. A lie. Armin wanted to tell him about Annie. The robot that had looked like her, had her power. The robot that had looked at him intelligently, known him, and tried to freeze him. He wanted to tell Erwin about Ilse Langner and Ilse the nurse who had saved Connie Springer, and he wanted to tell Erwin of Ymir's ashes and the corpse reaching, reaching, reaching, dead woman, sad woman, too charred to save. He wanted to say something about Bertholdt's possession of Ymir, something that had echoed in Ymir's hot touch, her skin leaving red skinny burns on Armin's pale forehead. Armin wanted to talk about the defects, that they were all defective except for Christa. That Armin was having trouble reading. Remembering. That his powers were consuming his entire being, and he couldn't stop it. He wanted to tell Erwin that he didn't want to be Cicero anymore.

"How's school?" Erwin asked.

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"I'm ahead in all of my classes, and taking three courses outside of the curriculum," Armin said quietly. "It's fine, Erwin."

"I'm not talking about your grades, Armin," Erwin said very gently. Armin was reminded of sitting in Erwin's car years before, and Erwin reassuring him that he was powerful.

"Then I have no idea what you're talking about." He pulled his hood up over his head, his hair in a ponytail as it usually was when he dressed as Cicero.

"Are you getting enough sleep?" Erwin asked him.

"I don't know, Erwin," Armin sighed, pulling up his knees and hugging them tightly. "You're the psychic one, you tell me."

Erwin looked at Armin sharply, and Armin felt suddenly ashamed. He hadn't meant it. _What's wrong with me today?_ Armin thought miserably. Maybe his problem really was that he wasn't getting enough sleep. He hadn't thought about that, but he always stayed up very late, and woke up very early, and never thought anything of it. He'd over slept today, though. That rarely happened. _I'll go to bed earlier, then_.

"I can't, Armin," Erwin said softly.

_He can't?_

"You can't see my future?" Armin asked. He stared straight ahead. "You've never told me that before."

"I never wanted to worry you about it," Erwin said. "But it seems that now… well, the fact is, Armin, you interfere with my precognition. You never used to, but now if you are in the future I need to see, you blot it out."

Armin dropped his legs and twisted to face Erwin in horror. "Wait, what?" he asked. "How long has this been going on?"

"It was on and off for a few months," Erwin said, "but it's been steady for weeks."

"So you can't see any future with me in it?" Armin asked. "None?"

Erwin smiled a little. "It can't be helped," he said. "Your abilities are far more useful than mine. If it's between my knowing the outcome of a mission, and you participating, there is no question. You're more important."

"Because I can trick people's minds?" Armin shook his head furiously. "But, Erwin—"

"Can you see my future?"

It was Christa who had spoken, soft and curious, her long purple cloak gathering around her tiny body. Vitae, she called her hero persona. Fitting.

"I can," Erwin said. "So long as Armin isn't in it."

"How far ahead can you see?" Christa asked. "A week? A month? A year? A decade? Can you see when I die? When Annie dies? Can you—"

"My power has many limitations," Erwin said. "Like Armin, I have trouble with the multitude of possibilities my ability offers me. While Armin hears thoughts like frequencies, I see futures like build-boards passing on the street, or spines of books on a shelf. There's nothing but a glimpse into what knowledge could be attained from taking a closer look. More often than not, I choose not to."

Armin sat and listened, because this was all so interesting. He knew some things about Erwin's powers, little things, but this was something else entirely. Armin had always felt that Erwin was the more powerful one, that Erwin's power was the eerie one. But now he saw it was the other way around. Armin's telepathy was something dangerous, and it was too strong for him to keep it contained. He knew that. He could feel it slipping from his grip.

"So how come you can see my future, but Armin can't read my mind?" Christa asked. "And what about Annie?"

When Armin looked back, he saw that Annie was sitting with her droopy eyes fixed on him. Christa was watching Erwin, her pale hair framing her round face, and her pink lips parted in confusion. Armin wondered what was so special about her. The healer, the result free of imperfections. The only one.

"It's possible," Erwin said, "that Armin's ability has formed a self-defense mechanism to keep out any foreign minds from manipulating his own."

"But my power doesn't affect his mind," Christa said. "It's just his aura— his life. I don't really care if he can read my mind or not, but the fact that I can't see his life force is… it's very, very troubling for me, because I won't be able to heal him if he ever needs healing."

"You don't have to worry about me, Christa," Armin said very gently. He was surprised that he had to say it. "I'm invisible more often than not, so it'd be hard for anyone to hurt me."

"You don't know that," Christa said, her eyes flashing to him desperately. Annie sighed from her seat beside the smaller blonde, and Armin glanced at her. Christa did too. "What is it, Annie?"

"Just accept that your power is no use to him," Annie said, resting her head back in her chair.

"What?"

"Just accept it," Annie said, her icy blue eyes closing. "If you can't save him, you can't save him. Whatever. Let him take care of himself."

Armin stared at Annie, and she stared back. _Thanks, Annie_, Armin said to her, though he didn't know why. He wasn't really grateful, but he felt like it was the thing to say. And she winced at his voice in her head.

_Why are you thanking me?_ she asked, her voice distant and crackling inside his head. _I'm just telling her that when you die, it won't be her fault_.

"Oh," Christa said. She sounded disheartened, and Armin wondered what she was thinking.

_You think I can take care of myself_, Armin said. He felt as though he was pressing his hands against her wall of ice, and trying to peer through it to see her face. And she was shrinking on the other side, too shy to come out and face him.

_I think you have that ability_, Annie said. Her eyes flickered as they moved from his face to the window. _I don't think you know how to use it, though_.

Armin almost rolled his eyes. He turned back to face the cockpit, his hood falling over his eyes. _Right_, he said. He couldn't help but sound bitter.

He wasn't sure what Annie meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He liked Annie fine, but he felt as though she knew something that he'd forgotten, and it was like an itch in his heart that he couldn't scratch. It nagged him, and taunted him. Armin felt very nauseous all of a sudden as he looked down at his hands. Bloodstains popped out against blinding white fabric, and ink pooled across the faded brown grooves, laughing at his ignorance. _'Tis in my memory lock'd_, his mind told him. _And you yourself shall keep the key of it_.

Armin wanted to slap himself in the face.

_I'm sorry_, Annie said suddenly. Armin whirled around to look at her, and he sensed both Christa's and Erwin's eyes on him. But he was surprised. _I didn't mean it like that_.

_Then how the hell did you mean it, Annie?_ Armin asked.

_I don't know_, Annie said. _I'm sorry, okay?_

Armin was feeling suddenly very anxious, because she was watching him, and he could sense the crack in her wall, and he could sense her behind it, peering through the hole at him and almost, almost, _almost _willing to let him see what she was so keen on hiding.

_I knew you before_, Armin said, turning around in his seat so Erwin would stop glancing at him. _Didn't I?_

_I don't know what you're talking about_.

Armin watched his own handwriting tremble on his fingers. There were sonnets playing like symphonies across his shaky hands, and down his sides, and he could feel the vibrations of music and taste the words, but he could not read them very suddenly. It was too hard to squint through the blotted, inky mess.

_At the institute_, Armin said. _We knew each other better, then. I know we did. But I forgot, and you just let it go. Why is that?_

_I don't know what you're talking about_, Annie told him. Her voice felt like snowflakes gathering on the windowsill of his mind.

_I just mean_, Armin said, _that you've been in my head before_.

_I really don't know what you're talking about, Armin_, Annie said. He felt her presence fading, as if she didn't want to be so close to him any more. It was sad to feel. But Armin turned around and smiled at her.

"We're almost there," he said. _You're a liar, Annie_.

"Good," Annie said, her eyes narrowing. _At least I know when I'm lying_, Annie said to him. Her voice rang in his head long after she spoke to him, and she felt their connection begin to ice over. Her wall was pressing into his head, biting at his senses, and he exhaled sharply, his teeth beginning to chatter from the sensation. He felt as though he'd been pushed into an icy pool, a tiny hand forcing his head beneath the inky, fragile surface of a frosting pond and keeping it under, coaxing him to keep under, even as his body began to fight the sensation, and he could not think or breathe. _We used to be friends_.

Armin pressed his gloved, inky, bloodstained hands to his ears, and he moaned aloud. "I know…" he mumbled, his lips trembling and turning blue. There was ice crawling across his eyes. Water clogged his ears, and froze around his eardrums. His heart was thudding in iamic pentameter. _Hamlet_, Armin realized. _My hands are reading me Hamlet. "There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; when down her weedy trophies and herself fell in the weeping brook." _"I know…"

"Armin." He felt a hand brush his shoulder. He shrugged Erwin off, and shook his head furiously.

"I'm f-f-fine," he said. He said it, and his voice caught in his throat. He wanted to cry. _Annie, stop_.

_You first_.

_You're hurting me_, Armin said, his head pounding, his thoughts slowing, his breath misting across the air as he tried to grasp what was happening. What the hell was Annie doing? What the hell was he doing? This was foolish, and he knew it, but he wanted to know what Annie was hiding, because he knew, and she knew he knew, and now they were at a stalemate, and he was freezing, and she was freezing, and he wanted to cry.

And then it stopped. The ice, and the weight, and the shivering emptiness that came with Annie's offensive. But Ophelia still drowned. That was written on his arms, and crawling down his sides.

"What is going on with you two?" Erwin asked. His eyes were forward, and Armin looked at him as he inhaled deeply, and exhaled shakily. "Tell me what you're talking about."

They were both silent for a solid ten seconds, and Armin shivered as they both turned toward the window. "The institute," they said in unison.

_Do you hate me? _Annie asked.

_No_, Armin said. He could feel his mind thawing, and it hurt to think._ I don't hate you_.

_You're an idiot,_ Annie said.

_And you're a liar_, Armin replied.

_Stop talking to me in my head_, she said sharply. _If you want to talk, talk. Stop using your power on me, and I won't have to use mine on you_.

Armin hadn't considered that. He still felt numb, but he turned around to face her anyway, keenly aware of Christa and Erwin. "I'm sorry," he said to her.

She shifted in her seat, looking a little guilty. "So am I," she said. They watched each other, and he was so suspicious of her, and she was so aware of it, but neither of them did a thing.

Armin didn't understand what they were doing. He felt like they were both tiptoeing around the truth, a truth he knew but couldn't touch, and a truth she knew but wanted to ignore. It was terrible. They were terrible.

They landed the plane on a parking garage roof. Marco and Jean were already sitting there, waiting for them apparently, and Erwin quickly went through their objective again. Annie tried to drift away from him, but he cut in front of her, blinking down at her a little desperately, hoping to amend for his previous mistake.

"I still think of you as a friend, you know," he told her very quietly. She stared at him, and glanced at Erwin and Jean and Marco and Christa. Christa and Marco were looking at them.

"How sweet of you," Annie said dully.

"If it really bothers you that much," Armin said, "I won't talk to you in your head anymore."

"Thanks, I guess."

Armin wanted to punch himself. He wanted to scream and tear his hair out, because his head hurt, and his heart hurt, and she wasn't understanding, and he couldn't understand her, and it was terrible. They were terrible, he and Annie, and they both knew it.

"Okay," Armin said, feeling awkward and embarrassed. "Well, I thought you should know. That you're still my friend. Even if I don't remember us being friends before."

"And even though you don't trust me?" she whispered. Armin stared at her, and his eyes darted to Erwin. But he hadn't heard. Armin could tell by the way he carried himself.

"Do you trust _me_?" he whispered back, turning his face to her. She said nothing. It was as if she couldn't understand what he was saying. She looked vacant and bored with his words. "Maybe that's our problem. Do you think so?" He was surprised at how nice it was to ask what she was thinking instead of knowing by default. It was refreshing.

"Maybe. And what would you do if I trusted you?" she asked. They were still whispering, because this was a secret, their unspoken suspicion. "You would hate me."

"I'm sure I wouldn't," Armin said gently.

"You're supposed to be smart," Annie whispered, her eyes moving from his face to the ground. "But you're so stupid. I'll be your friend, Armin. But there are some things you're better off not knowing."

He shook his head. No, he didn't believe that. He couldn't. "I want to trust you, you know," he said, feeling desperate and cold. They'd wandered so far from the group that Armin couldn't even hear Erwin talk about the objective anymore. The objective was, of course, to get as much information as they could out of _The Brigade's_ database about Reiss or even the institute, as confirmation of their involvement in the experimentation. "I mean, I don't think you're hiding this from me to be cruel."

They walked quietly for a few moments along the wall separating the parking garage roof from a very long drop. The sun was setting, and Annie had stopped to watch the Chicago skyline. It looked a bit like fire blooming across the clouds and the city, and catching on the chunks of twisted metal and glass from the robot attack. Annie glanced behind them at Erwin and the others, and Armin could see her go rigid.

"Armin," she said suddenly, whirling to face him. "Do you think I'm a good person?"

Armin stood for a moment, alarmed. His mind felt cold, but he could almost taste her fear, sour as it crept across her mind and breathed through the hole he'd punctured in her head. He pitied her at that moment, because she was so isolated, and she was so lonely, and she was giving that to him, these feelings, this desperation, this fear of being found, this fear of being caught like a wolf in a trap.

He realized that she needed to open up to people more. She was decaying inside her head. He could taste the decomposition, the wilting of dandelions and the oncoming blizzard that would force all growth to cease.

"I don't know if I really like the implications of saying anyone is a good or bad person," Armin said slowly. "If I said yes, I think you're a good person, I might just be saying that because I think you're good to me, or for me, while the opposite might mean you don't benefit me or conform to my ideals. And I don't think it's fair for me to say, because I can't just judge you without any support to base my opinion on."

"It sounds like you just don't want to answer my question," Annie said flatly.

Armin smiled, and it was genuine, because he realized she was teasing him. _We should talk more_, Armin realized. "I think you're a person, Annie," Armin said. "Good or bad, I don't know. I don't know if I'm a good person. I'm probably not, by most standards, but that doesn't really matter. Because my goal is to do the right thing, even if it's not always the good thing." He bit his lip, and he looked down at her. She was nodding.

"Okay," she said quietly. She shot a glance toward the others, and said very quickly, "Armin, there's something I need to tell you."

Had he convinced her, then? To trust him, or to begin to at the very least? Was this it, then? Had he succeeded in swaying her to his side? Or was she going to be even more cryptic about whatever it was she had to say?

"What is it?" Armin asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

"I'll tell you when we get home." She turned away from him. "It's… not something you'll want to hear right now. But I'll tell you, because I'm going to trust you."

"Thank you," Armin said weakly, a little surprised. He hadn't expected to gain much from her, but he'd hoped.

"Don't," Annie said. "Just… promise that you'll trust me too."

"Okay," Armin said, watching her back. "I promise."

"Hey guys!"

Annie jumped, and she whirled around with flashing eyes as Marco appeared at Armin's side. She stared at him, and Armin could sense her unease. Armin couldn't help but feel a little uneasy too. _How long was he standing there?_ Armin wondered. He hadn't even felt his presence, but then again, Armin's mind was too muddled to differentiate tastes and presences and thoughts at this point.

"Hello," Armin said. "Are we leaving now?"

"Um, in a few," Marco said. He had a new suit, courtesy of Hange, which was made for his agility, but also made to be bullet proof. Armin's suit was not. "What are you two up to?"

"Talking," Armin said. "You and Jean know your job, right?"

"Of course," Marco said, smiling wanly. "Official look outs and-or body guards. Hopefully it doesn't come to that, though."

"Erwin's a pacifist," Armin said, "and I can't fight. So you have to understand how important your roles are."

"Oh, don't worry," Marco said quickly, his warm eyes growing wide. "I'm really excited about this, actually. Jean's the one who's a bit put out."

"Let me guess," Annie said dryly. "He thinks we got the soft gig."

"Well, I guess it is," Marco admitted, "next to kidnapping and interrogating the president, and travelling overseas."

"I wonder how that's going," Armin said quietly, glancing over the Chicago skyline, feeling the weight of something greater beyond it.

"Yeah, I wonder," Marco said. He looked at Annie, and he smiled. "I don't think we've really gotten a chance to talk before, Annie."

"No," Annie said, looking at the horizon and frowning. "I guess not."

"I wish I could get to know all of you better," Marco said sadly. "I really do, because then this would be so much easier."

Annie looked at him. Armin could sense her uncertainty, and he thought perhaps she didn't know what to make of Marco. Armin wasn't sure either. Marco was a stranger, really, but a kind one. And Armin knew Mikasa trusted him— she'd even compared Armin and Marco at one point, which was a little flattering, because Armin didn't think he was as kind as this boy was, not nearly.

"You can get to know all of us better," Armin reassured him. "I mean, we've only gotten to really see each other once. The more missions we go on, the better we'll be acquainted."

"True," Marco said. His warm face and his warm eyes were glowing in the reflection of the dying sun, and Armin watched his face, his freckles dancing as he smiled. He noticed dimples caving into his cheeks.

"I think I'm going to go talk to Augur about my job here," Annie said, turning away from them. "Or maybe I'll just shatter my leg so I can go home."

"What was that, Annie?" Marco asked.

"I said I'm going to go talk to Augur."

Armin stared at Annie's back as she retreated toward their squad leader, and he couldn't help but feel a little taken aback by her behavior. Armin rubbed his temples, his headache only deepening as time went on. He could still feel residual traces of Annie's mental attack, and it still stung. Annie was giving him frostbite.

"Is she okay?" Marco asked suddenly.

"Yeah, I think so," Armin said, still massaging his forehead. Marco nodded, his eyes flickering across Armin's face.

"Are _you _okay?" Marco asked, his eyebrows rising. His suit was red and white, a winged lion perched upon his chest surrounded by expertly curling stitches that wove around his ribs. It was a very pretty design, for a hero costume, but it was something easily noticed. Armin knew, of course, this was the flag of the Republic of Venice. Home of San Marco's Basilica. Hence, Marco's choice of a moniker. It made a lot more sense when put into this perspective.

"Yeah, I think so," Armin repeated weakly, dropping his hands to his sides. "Just a little headache."

Marco was still smiling, but Armin saw it falter a little. Something sad flickered in his warm eyes, which melted like chocolate chips in cookie dough. Armin was confused by the tastes of Marco's thoughts because he couldn't really hear his thoughts, they were just a buzz in his head, like a fly brushing his ear and zipping away. The frequency was all jittery.

"Is it because of your power?" Marco asked softly.

Armin looked at Marco in astonishment. "How did you…?" he asked faintly. Marco just laughed, and he shook his head.

"Mikasa told me," he explained. "I mean, I already knew about your power, duh, but I know it's not very kind to you."

"It's a pain," Armin admitted. "I have good days, but today I feel like I can't control it at all."

Marco's eyes sparkled with curiosity, and he shot a glance over at Erwin and Christa and Jean and Annie. He looked back at Armin, and he tilted his head. "Can I try something?" he asked.

Armin blinked confusedly. "What do you me— hey, don't!" Armin tore his wrist from the boy's grasp, and he hugged his arm to his chest, feeling horrified and alarmed. His heart was beating very hard, because he could not deal with someone else touching him today, he could not handle that kind of strain. He would pass out, undoubtedly, or worse. "Please don't touch me, okay? Just don't."

"It's okay," Marco said very gently. He was reaching very slowly for Armin's hand again. "Please relax and trust me. I just want to try something. It won't hurt you."

"You don't understand," Armin said briskly. "You don't get it. Touching me is like setting off a bomb inside my head. Except instead of shrapnel, emotions go flying. Memories that aren't mine get buried into my frontal lobe and my temporal lobe and all down my corpus callosum, and tastes crash into my mouth and kick my teeth into my throat and roll on my tongue, and thoughts that don't belong to me get stuck rattling in my head, and even though I know they're not mine, they feel like they're mine, and I lose part of myself every single time." Armin took a deep breath, his eyes squeezing closed, and he felt cookie dough melt on his tongue. Sugar was lodging in his teeth, and chocolate chips dug into the inside of his cheek. "So please. Please don't touch me."

"Armin," Marco said. Armin stared at him. His skin was prickling at the sensation of cold air meeting his pores, goosebumps rising around Marco's long fingers. Armin looked down at his own bare wrist in Marco's grasp, his glove clenched in his right fist. He hadn't even realized. He couldn't even feel Marco's fingers digging into his wrist, two fingers pressing down beside a vein. Armin was awed, his eyes darting confusedly from Marco's fingers against the pulse of his wrist, to Armin's glove in Marco's fist, to the pale hair that stood on end as goosebumps formed across his forearm.

"H-how…?" Armin whispered. No, this wasn't right. It wasn't possible. With Erwin or Christa, yes, this could happen, but there was no possible way that Marco could initiate physical contact with Armin and not cause an unintentional connection. "That's amazing… I didn't even feel that, I—" He broke off, as his heart began to thud in his chest, and Marco dropped his wrist as though it had caught aflame. "What did you _do_?"

"I just distracted you," Marco said, blinking down at Armin innocently. "You were so busy talking about how bad it'd be if I touched you, you didn't even notice that I already was. I wanted to try it to see if maybe your heartbeat had an effect on how your powers respond to people, and as far as I could tell your heartbeat was very steady until you realized I was touching you."

Armin didn't think that sounded right. It contradicted everything he knew about his power. "You think I psych myself out with my powers," Armin realized. "You think I make it out to be worse than it really is to the point where it becomes as bad as it seems. Right?"

Marco was still watching Armin with that innocent gleam in his eye. "I just think you should relax," Marco said, "and let people in more. That's all."

Armin bit his tongue to keep himself from saying something very bitter. "Thanks, but I think I'll just keep the gloves," Armin said, reaching out for the one Marco had stolen. Marco handed it back, his fingers brushing Armin's knuckles, and Armin could taste something on his thoughts, something vague and hidden from the stretch of Armin's reach. Marco was strange, and a stranger, and Armin could feel the boy's sadness beneath the layers of false comfort.

"Whoa there," Jean said, approaching with his lax posture and honeycomb taste. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Why don't you try touching Jean, Armin?" Marco suggested eagerly.

Armin felt his gut clench in terror. "No way," Armin squeaked, yanking his glove back onto his hand and putting a good yard of distance between him and Marco and Jean. "I've had enough people touch me for today, thanks."

"Oh, please don't be mad," Marco gasped, looking down at Armin in shock. "I didn't think you'd react badly. And, you didn't, did you? I was right, you were absolutely fine."

Armin didn't respond. Because he didn't feel fine, but he didn't want anyone worrying about him either. "Look…" Armin said, glancing between Jean and Marco hurriedly. "Just because something worked for you doesn't mean it'll work for Jean. Everyone's mind is different."

"What exactly were you doing?" Jean asked, his brow furrowing. Marco looked a little sheepish, and he opened his mouth to respond, but Jean quickly cut in with a wave of his hand. "Wait. No. I don't want to know. Anyway, Augur says we're heading out. You two game?"

"Sure," Marco said. He was watching Armin with a crumpling expression. "Armin?"

"Cicero for right now," he said, rubbing his wrist subconsciously. He realized that Marco was staring at him with concern clear in his flickering eyes, and Armin managed a feeble smile. "I'm not angry. Your theory is actually something I never considered, and I'd like to pursue that possibility, that physical contact hasn't got to be something painful for me, or that my heartbeat determines how powerful my ability is." He pulled his hood over his face, and nodded eagerly. "I think that's a very interesting take on it, and it's not outside the realm of plausibility."

"Um…" Jean said, "what?"

"His power," Marco sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. "I wanted to check his power. Because, you know, he's sensitive to physical contact because of his telepathic abilities."

"Whoa, really?" Jean quirked an eyebrow. "Weird."

Armin shrugged. Was it weird? He had to suppose so, but he was so used to avoiding skin contact, even if he somehow could control his ability, it would make no difference. Armin would probably still flinch every time someone brushed his shoulder, or bumped into him. Armin would still cover himself in layers and layers of clothing to put a distance between his flesh and the itching, bleeding, biting thoughts of others.

They all wandered back to the plane, and Christa hopped up beside him eagerly, her deep purple cloak fluttering around her skinny frame. "You should drink more tea," Christa said, pulling up her velvet hood over her flaxen hair. A yellow strand curled around her bright blue eyes, and Armin watched her in wonder. _What are you thinking?_ he found himself musing. It was amazing to him to have to wonder, because it was rare that was so utterly out of his grasp of understanding.

"Why?" Armin asked, glancing at Annie as she passed him. She didn't look his way, nor acknowledge him at all, and she boarded the plane in her chilly silence. Jean and Marco were chatting rather loudly behind them, and Armin gripped his hood in order to keep the biting Chicago winds from flinging it from his head.

"It might make you feel better…" Christa said softly, looking suddenly nervous. "You… you aren't feeling better, are you?"

Armin stared at her. He felt Erwin's eyes glued to his back, and felt the scrutiny and the suspicion. And Christa merely wrung her tiny little hands, biting her lip as she searched Armin's face. She looked so concerned for him, it was startling. It was as though she was the mindreader, and he was left to play victim.

"I'm fine," he assured her gently. He clambered onto the plane, and offered out his hand to her. She smiled, and took it gladly, hefting herself up and through the open door.

"Okay," she said, plopping down beside Annie. Her plum colored cloak spilt across the seat around her, and Armin decided to sit beside her instead of near Erwin. The man was watching Armin, and that was not something that he could deal with. Because Erwin was worried. Armin could sense that, even without his power, because Erwin's eyes were constantly roving back to Armin's face. "If you say so…"

"Are you not feeling well?" Marco asked as he took a seat across from Armin.

Armin buckled his seatbelt. Marco's thoughts were beginning to rush, and Armin caught sense of his concern. They tasted saccharine and warm, and they melted the residual ice that clung to Armin's rattled mind. Jean sat beside Marco, playing with the Velcro straps that held his utility pouches to his hips. He didn't seem to be used to his new outfit yet.

"I have a headache," Armin said, ignoring Erwin as he closed and secured the door, and then crossed between them to get to the cockpit. The man's hard blue eyes met Armin's but Armin could not find the strength to hold the gaze, so he turned his face away. "But I almost always do, so it's not a big deal."

"I can make you tea when we get home," Christa offered, glancing up at Armin's face. "If you'd like, I mean. Green tea should help with your migraine, and vomiting—"

"Oh, wow, really?" Armin feigned his interest, if only to stop her from talking anymore. His heart was beginning to beat very hard, because Erwin was watching him. The gaze had turned from suspicious to suddenly knowing, so very knowing, as though Erwin could sense the fear in Armin's face, in his shaking voice and fingers. Why had she brought up the vomiting? Why couldn't she have left that where it was? "You must know a lot about medicine."

Christa shifted, her eyes moving to Erwin's back. He'd sat down, and was thankfully no longer looking at Armin, but he felt as though he was going to be sick again. He hated it when Erwin worried about him, because when Erwin worried, there was likely something wrong that Armin could not fix. Christa's eyes darted back to Armin's face, and she looked so apologetic that he couldn't be angry with her.

"I don't know nearly as much as I should," she said quietly, folding her hands in her lap. "I'm… very reliant on my power. I never get sick. And I can take away sickness, usually, so I've never had to go looking for medicine for Ymir, or anything like that. That's why I feel a little…" She chewed nervously on the skin of her lower lip, and Armin watched her teeth tear at the delicate epidermis. "Responsible, almost, for not being able to take away some of your pain."

He almost laughed in response to that. But he couldn't blame her. If their places had been reversed, Armin would feel the same, and he knew it. If his powers were something beneficial to life like Christa's were, he'd feel an intense amount of guilt for not being able to alleviate the pain of someone ailing. So Armin did understand where Christa was coming from, and it saddened him, because he wished she could do it. He wanted her to take the migraine away, the nausea, the dizziness of thoughts that were not his own.

"Why would you feel responsible for shit like that?" Jean asked, resting his ankle on his knee. "If you can't heal him, that's not your fault."

"No…" Christa sighed. "No, but I feel bad anyway, because… because what good is my power if I can't help people with it?"

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Christa," Marco said gently. "You have an amazing gift, but it doesn't work on everyone. And that's okay."

"Yeah," Armin said, nodding slowly. "Don't worry about me, okay, Christa? I'm so used to migraines, it's not even a big deal anymore."

Christa glanced at him, and he knew she didn't believe a word he said. "It's not a gift," she said. She stared vacantly out a window as Erwin warned them of their impending take off. "Not really."

"You can heal people," Marco said, his eyes flashing very wide. "You save lives. That in itself is something so incredible, and you don't think it's a gift?"

Christa looked a little nervous as she shook her head. "Oh," she whispered. "Well, yes, that's… that's nice, but… it's not that simple…"

They all fell quiet as the plane took off, and Armin's back pressed heavily into his seat, his head pounding viciously as his ears rung from the rattling of wind against the wings of the airplane, battering on the windows and hissing softly for Armin to open up, open up, open up a little…

They were silent for a good portion of time, sitting anxiously in wait for their mission to begin. They had such a simple task. Armin wondered if he felt so anxious because he knew he wasn't going to be at the top of his game, or because he was working in such a foreign environment. He had gotten to know Christa well enough in the short time he'd known her, and Annie was a familiar enigma, but Jean and Marco were a strange and uncertain variable in Armin's plan. He could not tell if their mission would succeed with the unfamiliarity of this squad.

Armin was beginning to tune into scraps of thoughts drifting from Marco's mind and Jean's as well. Words, mostly, blipping into existence and bubbling to the surface of Armin's mind, hissing at him and then dissipating with a great, sudden pop. And Armin was left to confusedly sort all the wonderings and how comes and what am I doings, and they weighed heavily in his mouth. They tasted hot, burning the flesh off the roof of his mouth, and the words just kept coming in an onslaught of awkward, nervous ramblings that could not be discerned. And Armin was stuck with it. He rubbed his forehead, swallowed thickly, and looked up at the ceiling, and down at his hands, and breathed in deeply, and breathed out shakily, because there was nothing that he could do to ease this pain.

They were all doing their separate things for a little while, and the sun disappeared behind the fat, swelling gray clouds, and they were drenched in a bluish darkness that floated around their faces and framed their flesh in a chilly glow. Armin had pulled off his gloves to rub the skin of his wrist, which was not hurting by any means, but rather it was prickly and itchy, gooseflesh forming beneath Armin's tiny fingers. Marco was watching him. His expression was apologetic.

"I didn't mean any harm by it," he said suddenly. Armin glanced at him.

"It's okay," Armin assured him. "Really. I understand what you were trying to do."

"What did he do?" Christa asked, looking rather curious. Annie was not looking, but Armin could tell she was listening.

"He touched my arm," Armin said, "to prove that I can be touched without accidentally forming a connection with someone."

"That's bullshit," Annie said. Armin looked over Christa's head at her, stunned, but Annie simply looked straight ahead with squared shoulders and a raised chin.

"It worked, though," Armin said quietly. "So maybe it's not all that farfetched."

Annie looked from Armin to Marco. She shook her head furiously, and she tugged the glove off her left hand. Armin sunk into his seat, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he saw her arm reach carefully over Christa's lap.

"Annie, no," he said. "Don't prove him wrong."

Annie paused, her blackened fingers resting against the inky, swirling script that wrote Armin's heart in a series of quotes that he could not fully understand, not at this moment, not when everything was so muddled. He was so confused, and his head hurt, and Annie was pulling Armin's gloves into her hands and drawing back from him. They watched each other, and Armin itched to ask her why she was acting so strangely, if it was because of what she needed to tell him, and he itched to speak aloud and ask the question that was plaguing him. _What are you thinking, Annie?_ he wanted to say. _Tell me what you're thinking_.

"So, like," Jean said, cocking his head at Armin, "if you can't touch people, how the hell are you ever gonna have sex?"

Armin nearly laughed aloud. What a juvenile thing to ask. So invasive and inane, and yet Armin was smiling, feeling as though he'd been given a test he'd slaved and stressed over for so long, that sitting down and looking upon it was far less daunting than he could ever imagine. It was, in fact, relieving. Because Armin had thought about this before, and he'd had this conversation with Erwin when he had once tried to sit Armin down and explain reproduction, as if Armin did not already know. Armin had quickly changed the subject from, "How are babies made?" to "How could anyone like me ever have children?"

The answer was very simple.

"I'll never be able to have sex," Armin informed Jean calmly. The boy looked taken aback, and suddenly remorseful, as though he'd treaded on Armin's toe. "Ever. Even if I'm miraculously stripped of my power to read thoughts and connect with people, I'll never be able to recover from what that power has physically done to me. I've accepted that, and I'm comfortable with it."

Jean sat for a moment, slack-jawed and alarmed, and Armin knew that he had not been expecting something so frank. Christa was sitting quietly beside Armin, her eyes on his face. They were not pitying, and they were not judging. They were simply watching, just watching, curious and absorbing all they could. Annie's eyes were colder, but she did not seem to pity him either. In fact, Armin could almost taste her sympathy as she settled in her chair, her shoulders slumping, and her icy blue eyes drooping as she gazed at Armin's face.

Marco seemed to be the only one to take it lightly.

"But you can touch certain people without feeling uncomfortable, can't you?" he asked eagerly. "Like Mikasa. You can hold her hand, or Eren's."

"Holding my best friends' hands is nothing like what I would go through if I had sex with someone," Armin said, closing his eyes. His head was pounding viciously. "To me, holding someone's hand flesh to flesh is the most intimate thing imaginable. And for some reason, with Mikasa and Eren it's completely painless. But just because they don't seem to clash with my ability, that doesn't mean I'd fuck either of them." Armin opened his eyes, and he tilted his head to the side, smiling wanly. "I mean, really?"

"Wait a minute," Jean said, holding his hands up. "Wait a fucking minute. When someone touches you, you're in pain? Like, that's a thing?"

"Yes," Armin said, nodding. "It's painful for me, and for the person touching me, usually. Annie can attest to it."

"Yep," Annie said dully. "It sucks."

"Except Ymir," Armin said distantly. "For some reason, whenever she touches me, I get really intense waves of pain, like I've been shoved into an oven and forced to bake and turn and bake some more until I've become so charred that all that's left of me is blackened bones, but she's never worse for wear. It's like she feels nothing."

"Well, Ymir's different than us," Christa said very quickly, her voice a squeak.

Armin glanced down at the tiny girl, and he turned to face her directly. "How so?" he asked.

Christa's eyes widened, and they darted fast as her arms waved hurriedly in the air, rapidly amending for her words. "O-oh," Christa gasped, "I just mean that… that Ymir wasn't given the power she's got, she was born with it. That's what I mean. She's different."

"Like Mikasa," Armin said, recalling his own theories about the powers and defects. "And Levi."

"Yes!" Christa nodded, her hood slipping over her vivid blue eyes. "Like them!"

"But I've made a connection with Levi before," Armin said, glancing up at the ceiling. "He still doesn't like being alone in the same room as me."

"Like you said," Marco offered weakly, "your power is different on different people."

Armin felt as though there was something he was missing. It was Ymir. There was something he was missing from Ymir, and that was the variable he needed to piece it all together. Whatever Ymir was hiding, it was crucial to solving Armin's confusion. Ymir, with her fire, and her drawl, and her possession, and her grandmother Ilse. Ymir and her tightlipped smiles, and her tired black eyes, and her heated touch, and her mind that held so much information that it could not be conveyed in a single touch, it was wrapped carefully in a protected field inside her mind, and Armin could not touch it. And Christa… Christa knew so much more than she let on, and Armin could tell, but he couldn't get anything from her. And Annie! Annie, with her wall of ice, and springtime taste, and sad eyes, and desperate thoughts that could not pass unto Armin fully. There was something wrong here.

"Your power sounds like it sucks," Jean said as they neared their destination. They'd gone quiet again, all of them, and Armin was still trying to puzzle out the enigmas around him.

"It's not nice, no," Armin said, pulling his knees to his chest. He embraced them tightly, and rested his chin against the top of his boots. "But it has its uses."

_Except when it doesn't,_ Armin thought miserably. _When there are a dozen gunmen, and not one of them have thoughts that I can reach. When there are three giant robots that seem human, seem real and alive, but what were they? And where did they come from? Why can't I know this? Why can't I have the power to understand these things?_

"Can you hear thoughts just… out of nowhere?" Jean looked a little uncomfortable. "Do you know what I'm thinking right now?"

"No," Armin said. "I can tune you out pretty easily. So don't worry, I can't hear you without focusing unless you're thinking really loud."

"How do you turn up the volume on your thoughts…?" Jean blinked at Marco. "Do you know?"

"Not a clue," Marco laughed.

"I mean," Armin said, glancing at Erwin as he announced their arrival over Philadelphia. Armin had kept the plane invisible, so he wasn't concerned about anything except where Erwin would land. "Well, I can hear little scraps of your thoughts, but nothing incredibly concrete. I don't want to read your minds right now, and I have a lot of other stuff in my head drowning you out."

"Oh?" Marco's warm eyes glittered with intense curiosity. "Like what?"

_Like Annie_. Armin bit his tongue. She glanced at him, as though she had heard the thought flutter through his head. And perhaps she had. Armin was still bitterly holding onto the icy, gleaming ribbon that connected his mind to hers. Armin sighed, and he looked down at his bare hands.

"Just… things that have been bothering me." Armin rubbed his wrist self-consciously. "Annie, can I have my gloves back?"

She tossed them at him, and he blinked as they hit his face, and crumpled into his lap, words of easy self-hatred and humorous disgust floating on the pale surface. Jean laughed, and Marco smiled, and Christa glanced up at Armin with her lips parted in concern. Armin was looking at the words floating against the white fabric, wondering why they were so hard to read.

"It's okay, Armin," Christa whispered, taking Armin's hand. He didn't look at her, but he knew she was worried because he probably had grown very pale.

"Yeah." Armin pulled his hand from hers, his flesh itching in discomfort. He pulled his gloves off, and took a deep breath. "It's fine. I just think too much."

Armin could tell that no one seemed to know how to react to this. No one was understanding, and Armin couldn't pin blame to them for this. Armin's power was all misfortune, and little benefit. He felt a little isolated from the world around him, and he recalled Marco had told him that maybe letting people in would make him feel better.

As Erwin landed the plane, Armin found himself wondering if maybe Marco was right. Maybe he really was psyching himself out with all his anxiety, and maybe if he just let people in every once and awhile the world wouldn't feel quite so overwhelming. Maybe Armin just needed to form stronger links with people, like he'd done with Eren and Mikasa. If he did that, then maybe it wouldn't hurt to touch that person. Maybe he just needed to give the links a chance.

"Now," Erwin said as they approached _The Brigade's_ headquarters. "Expect there to be people around. This is a news network, remember, and no matter how late it is, I'm positive we'll find workers straggling."

"Won't we be invisible, though?" Jean asked.

"We will," Erwin confirmed. "But that will mean nothing if someone realizes that we're there. Stay close. All we need is information. Telepathically inform Armin if you think you need to engage someone. But please, knock your opponent out as quickly as possible, if need be."

Armin hoped it didn't come to that. But contingency plans were their salvation, and there was no denying it. If they weren't prepared to fight, then they might as well quit while ahead. That was why Marco and Jean were there. So Armin took a deep breath, and asked everyone if they were ready, even though he didn't really care if they were or not. It didn't matter.

Invisibility to Armin was like a shield. No one could hurt him or anyone else if they were invisible. It was such a simple little trick. So simple, and so strange, and it suited Armin to be able to warp minds into false perception. And so, suddenly, they were all invisible, and entering an unfamiliar building, and Armin could feel the presence of them all around him.

They started through the building slowly. Armin passed by a woman working at a desk, and he pulled what he could of the building's layout from her mind. Then he distributed that information to the minds he could reach, and took Christa and Erwin by the hands because he could not mentally touch them. Their invisible fingers slipped into his as he led them into a darkened hall, doors running across the walls in a series of identical passages, choices that Armin could not make because he feared them. And he realized Erwin and Christa much trust him very much.

"This room," Armin said aloud, pulling his invisible guardian and his invisible friend before a door. He tested the handle, but it was locked. He jostled it for a moment, and looked around. The hallway was empty.

"Scoot a little," Jean said, his invisible body all but slamming into Armin's. Armin heard something jangling, and he could sense the lock picks in Jean's invisible hands, and Armin listened to the little mechanics inside the lock give way to Jean's expert jostling, listening as they clicked into the correct place just right, and the door swung open. "Heh. Piece of cake."

"Way to go, Ricochet," Marco said, his voice light and teasing. "Your delinquency has finally paid off."

"Shut up."

They were assigned to stay outside, Marco and Jean, and Armin entered the room with Christa and Erwin's presence following him. The room was full of computers, but Armin only needed access to one to get to what he needed. He wasn't going to be doing the hacking anyway. This was a job for Petra Ral, who was the core of their squad despite her absence. Armin was here to keep them all invisible and safe. Erwin was here to direct them, and to supervise them. Marco and Jean were here to guard them. Annie was here as part of one of Armin's contingency plans, but she also served as an inner guard. Christa was here in case something went terribly wrong.

"Wait."

Armin heard Annie's voice, and he was almost surprised. He turned around to face her, though he could not see her, and he sensed her concern as it bubbled from the hole he'd poked in her wall, sensed her fear and uncertainty. He wished there was something he could say to make her feel better, but he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. And she knew he knew.

"What is it?" Armin asked.

Annie's breath could be heard as she inhaled sharply. "I want to guard outside," she said. "It makes more sense. I have a power that'll eliminate an enemy quicker than mediocre hand-to-hand combat."

"Hey," Jean said sharply.

She rolled her eyes. Armin felt it. The way her eyes darted, and he felt her breath, and he felt her thoughts rolling inside a shuddering wall of ice, and he knew. It wouldn't last. It couldn't last. She was breaking inside of it, and it was cracking around her. She wanted freedom more than anyone could know. She gave him that, that glimpse of life, that glimmer of hope. She wanted to have control over herself, and the world around her, and her choices. She wanted it more than anything, and the wall was pressing up against her, hurting her just as much as it hurt Armin. And he understood. And he trusted her.

"Okay," Armin said. "I agree. It makes more sense for you to be on offensive. Erwin?"

"I see no fault in Lionheart's judgment," he said from beside Armin. "Though freezing someone in the middle of the hallway is a little conspicuous, don't you think?"

"I'm capable of defeating an opponent without my powers," Annie said firmly. "I won't hurt anyone, and I won't freeze anyone unless it's absolutely necessary. If there is no way around it, though, I'll have to use my ability."

"Understood," Erwin said. "San, you'll switch with—"

"If it's alright with you, sir," Marco said, "I'd like to keep my post in the hall. I'm better at hand-to-hand than Ricochet."

"No you're not," Jean said, sounding vaguely offended. "I'm way better."

"You're better at gymnastics," Marco sighed, "but I'm better at fighting. Remember the first night we ever went out crimefighting?"

Jean was very quiet. Armin tasted his resignation, bitter as it hit his tongue, and a wave of irritation sprung from Jean's invisible form. "Yeah," Jean said. "Yeah, okay."

So Jean followed Armin into the room, and Christa closed the door as they peered into the darkness. _Testing_, Armin thought gently, testing out his range with Annie and Marco. He threaded his mind to Marco's, tasting the cookie batter and blinking at the overwhelming sensation of sugar melting on his tongue. He tied that to the frozen wastes of Annie's mind. _Coming in clear?_

_Did you just connect our minds?_ Marco asked, sounding awed. _That's so cool!_

_No_, Annie thought to them bitterly. _It's really not._

_You two need to be connected to me in case someone comes_, Armin reminded. _Don't forget_.

_Oh, don't worry about us_, Marco said. _Nothing can get past Annie and I. I'm certain of it._

_I'm glad you're so assured._ Armin wandered over to a computer, and he wiggled the mouse. It was, of course, off, so he pressed the power button and waited as the room was filled with a blinding light. Armin waited patiently, and felt Jean settle into a chair while Erwin and Christa stood near the door. _Actually, while both of you are in my head. I think I should apologize_.

_Huh?_ Marco sounded taken aback, and Armin felt the word flutter inside his head, and then blow away like dust. _What for?_

_I acted pretty rude to both of you today_, Armin said. _Marco, all you were trying to do was help me, but I couldn't open my mind to the possibility of positive change. And Annie, I've invaded your privacy without even thinking. I'm not sure what's wrong with me today, but I'm so sorry for it_.

_Don't be sorry_, Marco said gently. _Don't worry at all. You didn't hurt our feelings. Right, Annie?_

_It was understandable_, Annie said. It was all she said. All she thought. She drifted back into the enclosed structure of her wall, her thoughts vague and distant.

Armin connected his phone to the computer so Petra would have access to it via her own phone. When Armin had asked if she could do this, she had jumped at the opportunity. She had wanted to come and do it in person, but Levi had found out and called her. Armin had not pried into what exactly the man had said, but it had changed Petra's mind. She complained, though, that it would be much easier if she could be there. Hacking from such a huge distance was a hassle.

"I wonder how the other squads are doing," Christa said, her voice breaking across the heavy silence. Armin watched the desktop grow dim as control transferred to Petra.

"By now they should both be nearly done, if they succeeded," Erwin said.

"And if not?" Armin asked, unable to bring himself to look away from the screen. The cursor was moving on its on accord, zipping across the screen and clicking on files and dragging them away.

"If not," Erwin said, "then we'll have to make up for their lack of results."

Armin sighed. He felt Erwin move closer, and he continued to stare at the computer screen as Erwin's hand landed on his shoulder. It was supposed to be a comfort, but Armin felt so sick, and so exhausted, and the brightness of the screen blaring through the dimness of the room was causing his eyes to water a little. His headache was worsening, and holding all of them invisible was straining for him. His shoulders were trembling.

"Are you cold, Armin?" Erwin asked softly.

Armin winced. "No names in the field," he reminded weakly.

"Are you cold?" Erwin repeated. He bent down before him, and took Armin by his chin. He stared into Erwin's face, shadowed black and white by the glare of the computer screen, his one visible blue eye alight with a strangely tranquil alarm. Armin could see that Erwin was concerned, and it surprised him.

Armin realized with a shudder that he was, indeed, very cold. He closed his eyes, and he felt Erwin's bare fingers slip beneath Armin's bangs and press against the raised imprints of Ymir's fingers that had been burned into his flesh.

"What is this?" Erwin asked, pushing his hair away from his forehead. "Your skin's blistered, Armin. And you have a fever."

Armin opened his eyes, and he pulled Erwin's hands from his face. He stared at the man's eyes, and he shook his head. "I got sick this morning," he admitted. "I had a fever then, too. Ymir checked, and she accidentally burned me. I don't even know if it went away."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Erwin asked, sounding suddenly furious. Armin nearly fell off his chair, he was so shocked and suddenly scared, because Erwin never used that tone with Armin, never ever, and it hurt.

"You would have made me stay home," Armin gasped, gripping his chair as he tried to steady himself. He felt Jean behind him, and his concern was growing. Armin tasted it in the honeyed flavor of Jean's lazy mind.

"Yes," Erwin said, his jaw tightening. "I would have. I would have told you that you'd be a fool to risk your wellbeing for a mission that can go on without you. You're no use to me if you're sick. You can't control your power, you can't focus— you've become more of a hindrance than a help, you must realize that." Erwin did not stand up, and he kept his eyes level with Armin's, and Armin's heart was beating suddenly very hard, because Erwin's words were hitting him like hammer strokes. Erwin's expression had become hard, and Armin couldn't tell what he was feeling, because he was so far away, so steady and calm and knowing, and Armin just couldn't take it. Erwin could be playing Armin like a fiddle for all he knew, because Erwin was charismatic and clever, and Erwin made Armin feel like all his problems could disappear, but then Erwin would do something like this, and Armin just didn't understand how the man felt, he didn't understand, he didn't know, and it was destroying him. "Do you think I don't know you? Do you think I didn't notice? Did you honestly think you could fool me, Armin?"

And Armin shook his head mutely, because something hard had lodged itself into his throat, and it hurt. He felt so ashamed of himself, and he stared at Erwin in terror, his entire body shaking out of fear and pain and confusion and a sickened exhaustion. Armin saw Christa coming closer, her brow furrowed, and her blue eyes glowing like beacons in the darkness.

"You need to understand," Erwin said, "that this is a very serious issue. That you can't just neglect your health for the sake of the mission. You've endangered not only yourself, but also everyone here. What on earth were you thinking? You're usually so much smarter than this— look at me when I'm talking to you. Look at me, Armin." Erwin's cold fingers caught Armin's chin again, and his teary eyes met the man's strikingly alert ones. His expression didn't soften, and Armin felt a sob bubbling in his chest. "You need to focus. We're all visible, and there are cameras here. We don't have much time. Look at my face, and focus on my face, and don't look away. I need you to focus. Make us invisible."

"I can't," Armin choked, his voice breaking across the heated air, and frost clung to his skin, goosebumps prickling his pores. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I— I can't, I feel like—"

"I know," Erwin said. "I know, but we don't have time to waste. You have to make us invisible again."

Armin looked away, and he listened to his breath as it became shallow, speeding up rapidly as he realized how immensely he'd fucked up. He rubbed his eyes, the heels of his palms digging into the hollows of his skull, and it hurt so much, and he didn't understand why. He took a deep breath, and tried to get a feel for the presence of Jean behind him, his hands hovering over Armin's shoulders worriedly, and Christa coming closer, and Erwin kneeling, watching, furious and cold, and Annie and Marco—

"Wait," Armin said, his panic heightening, and his confusion cloaking his senses. "There's someone outside."

"Yeah," Jean said cautiously. "Marco and Annie…"

"No," Armin gasped, pushing himself shakily to his feet. He was quaking, his knees buckling under his weight, and he lurched toward Christa. Erwin caught him around the waist before he could crumple to the floor. "Christ— Vitae, get away from the door."

Christa stared at him in shock, and she drifted closer as the door burst open, and Armin felt Erwin's body curl protectively over him as Jean leapt to his feet, both his guns appearing in hand. _Jean_, Armin thought to him sharply. _No. Don't shoot, oh god, don't_—

He squeaked as Erwin dragged him to the ground, knocking Christa off her feet and yanking her with them. She looked alarmed, but Armin could see her eyes, and he knew she was not afraid, because she stared at him with a tight jaw and flashing eyes. She didn't seem to like that Erwin had to shield her, but she lay on the ground anyway, leaning into Erwin's embrace, and throwing her purple cloak over Armin's head to protect him.

"Fuck," Jean swore as something cracked— a skull. Armin moaned, feeling the security guard's pain as Jean's gun cracked against the side of his head. Then he choked, because Jean had struck the man again in order to force him unconscious. He looked at Christa, whose bright blue eyes were flashing across his face, and she tore off her cloak as Erwin released them, wrapping him up in the deep purple velvet. Armin shuddered, but he was grateful, because the cloak was so warm, and his own cloak felt flimsy and ratty in comparison to Christa's almost regal cape.

"It's okay," Christa whispered, her fingers fumbling with the clasps of the cloak. She glanced back at the open doorway, and she exhaled sharply. "Damn it— oh, Armin, I'm sorry, I can't—"

"It's fine," he said, peeling the cloak off. She looked at him sharply, and she shook her head, objecting immediately. "Vitae, you have to call me Cicero now. And right now the last thing I need is a heavy cloak— I have a fever, remember. I feel cold, but I really shouldn't try to warm myself. In fact, I could use Annie right now." _Maybe she can just freeze me_, Armin thought miserably. _And then I won't have to deal with this awful headache_.

"Oh," she said, pushing her hair behind her ears. "Oh, gosh, right. Okay. But we need to get you out of here. Can you stand up?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "That's not important. Augur's right, I've become a huge hindrance—"

"No, you—!" she objected.

"Yes," Armin said firmly, "I have. I can barely make sense of anything right now. I'm useless, I can't even move…" He laughed bitterly, and Christa held him by the shoulders, and she shook him, telling him no, no, no, but he couldn't listen to her, let alone believe her. "There's someone… there's someone else coming… Augur…"

"They're in the hall," she whispered. "Do you know where Annie and Marco went?"

"Mm…" Armin shook his head. "They must have gotten spotted and ran off. That's not important right now. They're fine— I'd know if they weren't, I'd feel it. But there's… there's someone else, Vitae… Christa…" Armin slumped in her arms, staring at the floor and feeling the room spinning. He wondered if he'd puke again. Oh, this was getting out of hand. He was getting out of hand, and his powers were taking the front seat again, like they tended to when his mind and body could not contain them. "Erwin… tell Erwin…"

"Tell him what?" she asked, gently smoothing his hair back from his face. He stared at the body of the security guard near the doorway, and he saw one of Jean's guns lying beside the man. "Can you… can you tell me what hurts?"

"My head…" He sighed into her shoulder, and he was so grateful for her presence, because he needed to rest his head somewhere, just for a moment. "I can't… I can't make sense of anything, Vitae…" Armin's head was swimming, and there was ice clinging to his heart, and his head, and he sighed as she ran his fingers through his hair, rocking him like he was a child. "Christa…" He was shaking so badly, his teeth chattering and cracking and threatening to shatter against each other, that he thought he might bite his tongue off. He didn't know how he was still speaking. He thought that maybe if he kept talking, it'd stop, but it didn't, it made him feel worse, and Christa was holding him with her untouchable mind and her glassy blue eyes, and flaxen hair, and Armin thought that was sort of familiar, but he was blinded by his icy heart and frozen head. "Historia…"

She went rigid as she held him. Armin felt the presence of someone in the hall, and he realized with a start what that meant. He tasted the thoughts of a man who had pulled Jean's own gun on him. They were in the hall, and the man, Kitts Verman, was speaking. He was talking like a man who was scared. Who knew something. And Armin tuned into that, felt that fear, and he gained some semblance of strength from it.

He pushed off from Christa and lurched to his feet. "Armin," she said, her voice soft and shaky. "Armin, stop. You can't."

He scooped up the gun from the floor, ribbons shattering in his head, and they felt frozen and bloody, and he wanted to laugh at how good it was to be free of them, despite how crippling it was to feel the shards of a broken link imbed inside his fragile mind. His hands were shaking as he flicked the safety. His fever had broken, and now he felt very warm, sweat causing his hair to stick to his brow. Something in him had melted. Like ice on a wire, or chocolate chips in an oven.

"Stop," Christa repeated. "You're sick, Armin. You shouldn't be moving around, and you're in no shape to fight."

"I don't intend on fighting," Armin said.

"What do you mean?" she asked weakly. She pushed herself to her feet, dragging her heavy velvet cloak with her. "Armin?"

"It's Cicero," Armin corrected her as he entered the hall, his feet moving subconsciously, his knees and joints aching at the tough action of bending. He spotted Erwin and Jean at the end of the hall, on their knees with a man between them. Erwin was a pacifist, and Jean hadn't any power to speak of. And Kitts Verman had his gun. And Armin had the other.

"Okay," Christa said. "Cicero, then. What are you going to do?"

Kitts Verman didn't knew as much as Armin had hoped. He knew that there was something rotting in the underbelly of their little network. He knew that the responsibility fell on Reiss's shoulders, Reiss who had met the man once or twice or thrice, and there was a glimmer of recognition of a child peeking out through the door of a library, blond and blinking and blissfully curious. Armin saw this in the man's mind, and that seemed so strange, because he didn't know the extent of Reiss's misgivings. He didn't know that there had been experimentation, and he didn't know that there were now kids who had to live every single day with the result of some sick whim.

But he did know he had to protect the secrets that _The Brigade_ held at all costs.

That was it, then. Armin had no other choice.

_Verman_, Armin thought to the man, causing him to jump and whirl around. Armin raised the gun in his hands in response, and the man stared, his eyes growing wide in shock. "Drop the gun," Armin said. He saw Jean's face, and the boy looked absolutely incredulous. Erwin simply watched, his expression neutral.

"Where did you people come from?" the man asked, looking utterly terrified. Armin almost felt guilty, but he kept his fingers firmly on the trigger.

"I think the question should be," Armin said, "why are you so willing to kill us?"

"E-excuse me?" Verman asked, his voice growing weak at Armin's words. Yes, Armin could taste his fear, and it soured the air around him. His hands shook against the gun.

"You want us dead," Armin said calmly, his eyes flickering as he searched the man's face, searched the man's mind, and bled it dry of information. The man blanched, and Armin wondered if he felt it. The parasitic touch of Armin's mind leeching off his. "You don't even know us. You couldn't know us, we've never met, but still, you want us dead. Because someone warned you about us." His gloved fingers tightened around the gun. "Is it because we're dangerous? I won't lie, that's true enough. But do you know why, Verman? Don't you know the truth about who created _The Brigade_?"

"How do you…?" Verman's hands shook on his own gun, and he shook his head furiously. "Stop that! Stop… stop talking, or I swear…!"

"You'll shoot me?" Armin exhaled sharply. "Go ahead. Do it. Shoot me, and then see what happens." Verman stared at him. "Oh. But you can't shoot me. Why is that? Do you know me?" Verman's eyes flashed in terror. "You _do_!" That was strange. Armin had never met this man before, and yet he somehow knew him. "You can't kill me— you want to, but you can't. Why is that?"

He felt Christa at his back. Armin almost looked down at her. And recognition glowed inside Verman's eyes. _Historia_. Armin tasted the name on his tongue, and in Verman's head. It tasted familiar, like candy canes and antiseptic.

"Ah," Armin breathed. "Not me. Her. You're scared you'll hit her."

"I don't know him," Christa said.

"Neither do I," Armin said, staring blankly at Verman as sweat broke upon his brow. Yes, Armin had caught him. He was breaking apart before their eyes. "But he knows us."

"Both of us, though?" Christa whispered. "How is that possible?"

Armin couldn't answer that. Verman's thoughts had gotten too muddled in his panic, and now Armin could only catch little scraps. The name Historia blew around Armin like wind whistling through grass, and he felt the breeze tickle his skin, and it was so familiar to him, like an old memory surfacing from the depths of a lake after a long winter. Reiss was thought of, and there was some panic there, and that panic turned to terror. Verman turned the gun on Jean, who had inched ever so slightly closer with the intention of knocking the man out.

"Stop it," Verman choked. "Stop talking— both of you, stop, or I'll blow his brains out."

Armin pressed his lips together firmly. He recalled watching Eren get shot five times, and the taste of his blood in his mouth, and the overwhelming despair that had overtaken him. No, Armin couldn't go through that again. Not in the state he was in now.

"If you shoot," Armin said, "I shoot."

Verman's lips were trembling. Jean was staring at Armin with his eyes narrowed, alert and searching for the correct opening. Armin knew that Jean wasn't incompetent. He could take down Verman easily, so long as the gun was trained away from him. And Jean knew, of course, that it was all a bluff. That Armin would likely miss if he shot the gun in his hands. It was so cumbersome in his shaky hands, it was a wonder that he was still holding it.

_You said not to shoot_, Jean thought, his voice screaming in Armin's head. Because this was the first time Jean was truly calling out to Armin, and he winced in shock as honey spilt across his tongue and clung to his teeth, and sealed his lips shut.

_I told you not to shoot_, Armin said. _You've never killed anyone before_.

_Neither have you!_

Armin recalled Annie's question. Did he think she was a good person? How could he possibly judge her, when he could barely comprehend his own actions as good or evil? He was always praised for his judgment, for his mind, for his pragmatism. But now they were all in shambles. He was in shambles. He was deteriorating, and he felt his mind leaking through his ears.

_That's not true_, Armin said. _I killed a man using just my words once. And even if I can't kill Verman using a gun, I can almost certainly make him kill himself_.

Jean's face seemed to crumple at that, and he stared at Armin with a furrowed brow and slumped shoulders. _You don't have to_, Jean said.

_No,_ Armin said. _I don't_.

Eren was so sure that they were heroes. But Armin was standing here, his trembling fingers on the trigger of a gun, his skull threatening to cave in and shatter, leaving bits of bone to collide with his brain and turn it to a gooey, squishy mass of sticky, pulpy matter. And Armin knew that he could be the one responsible for taking a life, whether it be by his own shaky hand, or by the puppet strings dangling from his pulsing brain and connecting him to any unsuspecting mind that could be reached.

It was confusing, not knowing what to do next. Armin used to be so sure of his actions, but right now he felt like _any_ move he made would result in something cataclysmic. And the worst part was, he didn't care. He wanted it. Because at least there was closure in knowing something definitively. He knew that pulling the trigger, no matter what course the bullet took, would bring a great deal of pain to his already fragile heart. He knew that, but he didn't know what _not_ pulling the trigger would do. And perhaps that would hurt more, because there were lives on the line. Jean, a stranger, but a kind one, who tasted like honey and bemusement, and he wanted so bad to be a good person, and to find his place, but at the same time he was absolutely terrified of his choices. And Erwin. Erwin, Armin's guardian, Armin's savior, Armin's friend— if only Armin could believe in Erwin like everyone seemed to believe in him. If only he had that kind of faith in anything, or anyone. If only he had that kind of faith in himself.

Nobody seemed to be ready to stop him. Christa stood at his side, watching Verman with her clever blue eyes, and Armin knew that she wasn't who she was pretending to be. Oh, it was written all over her sweet, pretty face, and Armin recognized her gaze to be distrustful and wary. And she, the most innocent of them all, seemed almost willing to let Armin pull the trigger.

Jean wouldn't stop Armin. He couldn't. And Erwin was unreadable, like always, with a steady gaze, straight shoulders, and a hard expression. Erwin could weather anything. And Armin was so scared of himself in that moment, he thought he might begin to sob. He didn't _want_ to kill this man. But what was good and what was necessary… they weren't the same. And for the mission to succeed, Verman could not tell a soul about what he'd witnessed. It wasn't possible.

Armin knew a thing or two about superheroes. Killing was a big no, especially when there was a way around it. But Armin also knew that letting this man live was more trouble than it was worth. If the man knew Armin and Christa, then that was a problem. There was no way to keep him quiet, except to silence him. And here Kitts Verman was, pointing a gun at Jean's head. Was there really a way around this? Or was Armin just kidding himself?

He understood now why Erwin was so angry. Armin had made a mistake in not telling anyone about his fever. He had underestimated how truly overwhelming this kind of illness could affect him. He'd never felt like this before, so powerless, and yet too powerful even by his standards. And Armin, unstable and close to tears, was holding a gun.

"Do you really want to kill a teenager?" Armin whispered, his voice melting with his mind, and he shoved the words into Verman's head. Armin watched his heads shake against the handgun. "You'll be charged. You can't get away with it, and you know it. His fingerprints won't be on that gun, but yours will. You'll have taken away a child's promising future, Mr. Verman. Can you live with that?"

Verman's sweaty face grew even paler in the dim light of the hallway. Armin felt his own words imbed themselves deeply into the man's subconscious, and they dragged fissures across his skin, breaking his expression in half, and tears leaked from the exposed brain.

"I told you to stop talking," Verman breathed. "I told you. I told you…"

"And I told you," Armin said steadily, "to drop the gun."

"You're a monster," choked the man, his eyes darting between Armin and Christa. "Both of you! He warned me, he said you'd become rotten, he said it, but I couldn't believe it— but now I see what he meant. I know you, I know you now, you're that— vigilante! A menace to society! You talk and talk, and force people to do your bidding!" Verman's hands were shaking even worse than Armin's. "And you!" His eyes were stuck on Christa's face. "Father told me you were dangerous, but I couldn't believe it. Not you, how could you be? You were such a sweet little girl, but you've gone bad. You've both been tainted. You're _evil_!"

"Evil," Armin repeated. "Evil, Mr. Verman, is not simply holding a gun to a man, and saying a few words. Evil is corruption. If I'm evil, then it cannot be by my own accord. If I am evil, sir, it is because someone made me this way. If I am evil, then it is like you said— I've been tainted, and by someone far above you, and above me, and above this entire network of lies you feed the public, because you can't have them knowing that their leader orchestrated human experimentation. If I'm evil, then so is this entire organization, and everyone in it. If I'm evil, Mr. Verman, then so are you. Because you've forced my hand." Armin steadied his grip, and he felt his mind clear a little. He could not kill Verman. There was clarity in the man's accusation. Because Armin was certain he wasn't good nor evil. He was just a person. He was just a person who wanted closure. He wasn't a hero, and he wasn't a villain. He wasn't even Cicero. He was just Armin, a boy who was beginning to regain a sense of himself, one little bit at a time.

"So," he said in an even tone. He felt almost serene as he spoke, and he saw Erwin's face. There was approval in his eyes, and Armin's heart swelled with warmth, melting the ice that had clung to it. His fever had broken, and his mind had reassembled. Armin was going to be okay. "I'll tell you once more. Drop the gun. There's no need for either of us to be the evil one. We can end this by dropping our weapons, and talking like civilized human beings. I'll gladly tell you all about the corruption in your company if you can tell me who is responsible for it." Armin's gloves were going wild with the swirling, jittery script of Armin's own hand. He could read it now. _Qua re secedant improbi, secernant se a bonis, unum in locum congregentur, muro denique, quid saepe iam dixi, secernantur a nobis_. Armin saw the words glistening, and he was relieved to see them. Nothing made him feel more like himself than when he read Cicero. _Wherefore, let the wicked depart, let them separate themselves from decent men, let them finally be separated from us by a wall as I have often said_. "Drop the gun, Mr. Verman."

Verman stared. His face was shadowed, and his fear was palpable. Armin could hear his thoughts, but they were all strangled. He was not in his right mind. And Armin realized what Verman was about to do, because he tasted it. That fear consuming him. There was no reason left inside his skull, only terror.

"Don't you dare," Armin breathed. Verman's lower lip trembled. And his arm shot out, twisting away from Jean. Two shots rang through the air, and Armin was surprised, because his gun had recoiled and kicked his chin, leaving a sharp, stinging sensation as Armin dropped it. It clattered to the floor as Christa went flying, her cloak torn from her shoulders and left to flutter away in a heap of purple velvet as she caught Erwin's crumpled body. Armin's mouth had dropped open. No. No, this wasn't right. No.

Armin had never met anyone so blinded from sense. He could not believe that this had happened, that he had let it happen. And the man hadn't even been hit by Armin's bullet. There was a chunk torn out of the ceiling where Armin had shot a hole through the panel. It was unsurprising. Armin had never shot a gun before. Of course he wasn't a good shot. And of course he'd held it wrong, and now he was pretty positive he was bleeding from the chin, or bruised at the very _least_. And oh yeah, Erwin had been shot.

Erwin had been shot.

And Verman was turning the gun back to Jean. But this time, Jean was ready. He jumped to his feet, and twisted out of the man's way, grabbing his arm and forcing it back to the point where Armin was certain he'd heard something pop, and Verman screamed, but Jean had already wrenched the gun from his fingers and forced him to his knees. Armin exhaled sharply. His head was aching terribly, and Erwin was bleeding out, and Jean was safe and furious, and Armin was not in any mood to bargain again. This man had missed his chance. And though Armin wasn't evil, he knew that he was not good by any means.

Armin kicked the gun he had dropped out of Verman's reach, and he dropped to his knees before him. His heart was pounding very hard. _Where was Erwin shot_, he wondered, _why isn't he making any noise, shouldn't people make noise when they're shot?_ _Even Eren made noise, like someone drowning. In blood. That would make sense. But there's nothing from Erwin, nothing at all_.

Armin stared into Verman's terrified eyes. And he raised his right hand to his lips, tugging his glove off with his teeth. "Ricochet," Armin said softly, clutching Cicero's dramatic conclusion to his oration against Catiline in one hand. "Hold him steady for me."

Jean looked at him. And he did just that.

"W-what are you doing?" Verman gasped, twitching away from Armin's bare hand. He paused. He was angry. Oh, he was so angry… and so exhausted… and he wondered what this would do to Verman. What it would do to Armin himself. Would it be worth the pain to torture this man with invading his mind? And it didn't solve the problem they were facing, that this cowardly man knew far too much.

Armin tore his other glove off, and grabbed Kitts Verman's face with both hands. The sensation caused fire to bloom across Armin's mind, raging ferociously, and he saw a little boy standing in a library, smiling wanly. He saw a little girl with a gap-toothed smile peeking through an open door, and retreating shyly. He saw the president shake hands with him, nodding gratefully. "Yes," Reiss said. "That was my daughter. Isn't she charming? I wouldn't trade her for the world." And Armin just nodded, nodded, though he was confused, because wasn't that girl adopted? It didn't look it. And what of that boy in the library? "Oh, don't mind him," Reiss said. "He's such a quiet boy, you won't even know he's here."

His fingernails, a little too long and unkempt, dug into the wrinkled flesh of Verman's cheeks. A shockwave of terror filled Armin. He relished in it.

"Forget," Armin told the man, absorbing all his fear and disgust, and letting that shake his unstable mind inside his fragmented skull. His headache was a thing of the past, a silly pain in comparison to this fire-forged agony. Verman was a thousand thorns from a thousand roses pressing into Armin's brain. _Roses_, Armin thought. Verman moaned.

"Stop," said Verman. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

"_Forget_." Armin tasted crushed roses in his mouth. This was not a memory of Verman's. This was his own memory. He was looking at Verman, and smiling wanly. He'd been playing with the dead roses in the vase by the library window. He remembered, the brown petals had crumbled in his chubby fingers. "Historia?" the man had asked, surprised. And Armin's smile had fallen. Because no one talked about Historia anymore. "No, sir," Armin had said. "She went away."

Armin could feel Verman's memories as they slipped between his fingers. And he tore them to ribbons, tore them to bits, using nothing but his nails and his teeth and his cruel, vicious mind. Kitts Verman had no time to scream, but he did convulse beneath Armin's fingers, and Armin's lungs were expanding, pressing up onto his ribs, and they would explode and force everyone around him to eat the shrapnel of his shattered bones. He breathed in fear and exhaled rage. Roses burnt his tongue.

Any semblance of tranquility that Armin had retained in these minutes of terror and fury, it melted away as Armin's fingers drew a bead of blood out of Verman's sunken cheeks. His eyes had rolled upward, and the ribbons of his mind were snapping one by one.

"_**Forget**_!" Armin snarled, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

And all the ribbons were cut in one swipe, and they fell around him sadly, drifting like crinkled rose petals. Kitts Verman crumpled as Armin released him, his body a useless, empty shell. Armin felt empty too. His breathing was heavy. His head was splitting apart.

He swayed a little, tears running freely against his warm cheeks, and they were a welcome chill. He was so sick on fear, he couldn't even feel his grief. Or his guilt. He didn't even care that he had just done something morally despicable. He didn't care at all. He was heaving, his entire body shaking, and he glanced up at Jean as he bent down beside him.

He offered out an inhaler, and Armin snatched it, taking three puffs and relishing in his ability to gasp. His entire body felt ready to give way, as if his tendons would snap, and his limbs would all crash into one awkward pile. He was on the brink of collapsing.

"What did you do?" Jean asked, nudging Verman with his toe. No one else was on this floor now. Armin would be able to feel anyone else's presence, even in the shape he was in.

Armin inhaled deeply, and exhaled. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the mouth, and out through the nose. In through the nose, and out through the nose. In through the mouth, and out through the mouth. He pushed his hair from his sweaty forehead, but it just curled right back into place.

"I made him forget…" Armin sighed, fumbling with his gloves. He still tasted roses. Why the fuck did he taste _roses_? Kitts Verman didn't taste like roses. He tasted like fear and vodka. Not roses.

"What did you make him forget?"

Armin looked at Erwin sharply. The man was sitting upright, Christa supporting his back, and there was a large, damp black stain in the side of his uniform. Armin looked to Christa, and she smiled gently. She held up a bullet between two fingers, and he nearly laughed. Because he'd forgotten. She was a healer.

He nearly tripped over himself trying to get to Erwin. He flung his arms around the man's shoulders, and he buried his face in his chest. And Armin felt his entire resolve break, and he was sobbing, his fingers catching on Erwin's cloak, and he tasted the blood that had seeped through the wound Verman had dealt, but it didn't even matter. None of it mattered. Why had Armin let something so silly get to him? He was sick all the time, this was nothing new. Armin was sickly, he'd accepted that. He couldn't let something so foolish blind him again.

Erwin seemed surprised. "There, there," he murmured, smoothing Armin's hair back, just as Christa had done. He pulled Armin's face gently from his chest, and he felt so like a child that it hurt to even look Erwin in the face. He hiccupped as the man wiped at his tears with his black cloak, his gloved fingers grasping his chin. "I hope you're not wasting your tears on me."

Armin wanted to laugh, but it came out like a garbled, pained sob, and he shook his head furiously. "I m-m-m-messed up…" Armin choked, squeezing his eyes shut. "I messed up s-so ba-ad…"

"I disagree," Erwin said. "I think you made the most of a very tough situation."

"But you could've died," Armin gasped, his eyes squeezing shut. "Because of m-my mistake, because I didn't tell you I was sick— if I had known, if I had even thought for just a _second_—"

"It might have made a difference," Erwin whispered. "But for now, tell me. Are you alright?"

Armin groaned. He groaned, and he chuckled, and he buried his face in Erwin's chest again. "Define alright," he mumbled into the bloody fabric. When he pulled his face away, he was certain it'd be bright red and wet with tears and blood, but he didn't care.

"Is this guy gonna be okay?" Jean asked. Armin sniffled, and he pulled back from Erwin. He hiccupped again, and Erwin rubbed his back slowly.

"What did you make him forget?" Erwin repeated softly.

Armin smiled tremulously. His heart was still beating very hard, and his head was pounding viciously, but he felt a lot better than he had before. He was glad for Erwin's presence. His untouchable presence that was such an immense comfort. Armin couldn't imagine life without it, and it made him realize how truly dependent he was on Erwin as a person. Because no matter what Erwin thought of him, Armin was stuck in utter adoration of this man who had taken him in, fed him and clothed him and given him a home, and he wondered if Erwin knew, or if he just pretended he didn't.

"Oh," Armin said weakly. He glanced at the vacant, drooling face of Kitts Verman, and he sighed. "Everything."

Erwin glanced at him. "Ah," he said. "How unfortunate for him."

"Wait," Jean said. "What?"

"How awful," Christa murmured.

"A necessary sacrifice," Erwin told them. "Can you stand, Armin?"

"Yes," Armin said. He struggled to his feet shakily. "Can you?"

Erwin smiled tightly, and he pushed himself very slowly up. He towered over them all, and he raised his head high. "I believe we're missing two of our members. Ricochet, will you go fetch the phone? Petra should be done hacking by now. And ask her to erase what security footage she can from this building in the last, say thirty minutes."

"Okay," Jean said. He eyed Verman's body as he scooped up his guns and holstered them, walking away toward the room with the computers.

Armin began to sway on his feet, and Erwin grasped his shoulders. "I can carry you," Erwin said. "What you did… it couldn't have been good for you."

"I'm feeling a lot better than I did before, actually," Armin admitted. "I think I might even be able to make us all invisible now."

"I really wouldn't recommend—" Christa started, biting her lip.

"I can do it," Armin said firmly. She looked at him, and he thought she might yell at him. But Christa was too reserved for something like that. So instead she watched him with her narrowing eyes and tight lips, and Armin recalled something. "Who's Historia?"

"Huh?" Christa looked taken aback.

"Historia," Armin repeated, leaning against Erwin for support. He was relieved when his guardian wrapped his arm around Armin's shoulders and pulled him closer. "I don't know. Verman just kept thinking about that name. His mind was so… so messed up, I couldn't even tell what was happening in it. But he knew Reiss, and he knew us. Somehow. But he knew more or less nothing about the institute."

"I don't know…" Christa looked uncomfortable, and she turned away from them. She plucked her cloak from off the floor. "You made his aura all funny, you know…"

"If he ever recovers," Armin said, "I'll apologize."

"Yo," Jean whistled, jogging up to them and waving Armin's phone. "Got it. Let's go find those two assholes. They're so gonna regret ditching."

"Yes," Armin agreed dryly, "because that was so fun."

"Well," Jean said with a frown, "no, but it was definitely a sight. By the way, Vitae, your power is _the shit._"

Christa flushed bright red, her pale cheeks growing rosy and splotchy, and she shook her head. "O-oh," she mumbled, "no, not really…"

"Augur was glowing," Jean said. "Like, I saw it. There was a gold ring all around him, and you just fuckin' pulled at it, and it got so bright— like, I didn't really get what you were telling me before, that your power wasn't just healing, but I see now. You really do see auras and stuff."

Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was parted, and she was nodding in awe. "Yes," she said. "Yes, that's right."

"Well, it's really cool," Jean told her. And Christa smiled. Armin watched her, the way her lips quirked, and her eyes crinkled, and she looked a little stunned, but pleased. He'd never realized it before, but Christa rarely smiled. Or, at least, she rarely smiled genuinely. And it was jarring to see, because it made him wonder what on earth she could be hiding.

"Thanks…" Christa said. She looked at Armin, and he kept staring at her, undeterred by the attention he'd drawn.

"Let's go," he said, clutching Erwin's arm. His skin prickled as he dragged their presence, and made them all disappear with a pull and a flick of his focus. His joints ached, but he figured he'd be okay, so he dealt with it, and focused harder as he led them out of the hall. He was thinking about Kitts Verman. And Reiss. He knew he should feel guiltier about what had happened. He'd erased a man's mind. He'd done that, and Armin felt very little remorse. Perhaps he'd wake up tomorrow with a crippling sense of regret, but for now, Armin just couldn't care. That man had set Armin off the edge, which wasn't remotely surprising. He'd already been tipping, and his mind was far from stable at that point. Armin hadn't done it to be cruel— if he'd meant to be cruel, he would have left the man with Armin's touch to haunt him for the rest of his miserable life. Yes, that would have been cruel. Instead, Armin had stripped him of his memories and his senses. It was almost a kindness. He couldn't feel pain anymore, or sadness, or fear.

If Armin kept telling himself it was a kindness to destroy that man's mind, perhaps he would convince himself, and perhaps he really would become that evil person he'd assured himself he was not.

Armin followed Annie's taste. She was too familiar, and Marco was barely a blip in Armin's radar. Between the two of them, Armin could easily track Annie if she was within a mile of him. Her taste was like a jolt of pressure in his head, and it hurt, but it was a familiar ache, and it was almost welcome now. He remembered that she had promised to tell him something important, and he almost called out to her mentally, he was so eager to hear it. Her springtime taste, the dandelions and frosted grass, it tickled his nostrils and his taste buds, and it turned sour as they made it outside.

He became worried at that. Annie's presence was getting closer, and her taste was growing… icier. Armin thought that was a silly thing to think, that a girl with ice powers had thoughts that were slightly icier than usual, but yes, that was right, her thoughts were cold and growing colder by the second. As if she'd frozen herself in shock.

Armin had to push himself forward, because he was growing fearful for her. She was hiding inside her mind, behind that stupid wall, and he couldn't reach her. He couldn't call out to her. He was stuck knowing she was scared, and shocked, and stumbling, and he didn't know why. His focus shifted, and they all flickered back into visibility.

"Cicero?" Erwin sounded very distant. Armin could not listen to him. He was gaining speed, not thinking of his aching head or aching joints or the crushed roses scratching his tongue. No, he was thinking of Annie. Because Annie was terrified.

And that was strange, wasn't it? That Armin could feel her terror, despite not knowing what she was thinking. It was empathy, not telepathy. _Empathy_, Armin realized with a sinking realization. _Oh god, I'm an empath_.

He sped past an alleyway, and he inhaled sharply. Annie was very close. She was shaking, watching him, and he could tell why she didn't just come out and face him. But then a shout from behind him caused him to turn. Christa was standing outside the alley he'd passed. She was staring into it, her lips parted, and her brow furrowed, and Armin forgot all about Annie for a second as he returned to the girl's side.

"Vitae?" he whispered. The nipping October air grazed his ears, and licked at his exposed cheeks, and he pulled up his hood to make it stop. Christa's eyes flickered up to his face. She looked horrified, and confused, and she looked back into the alley. Armin could hear someone's strangled shouts— and that voice was familiar. "What's wrong?"

Christa swallowed very hard, and she pointed into the alley. "I can't…" she whispered. "I can't… do anything, I can't… there's nothing there, Armin, if there was…"

Armin looked into the alley, which was darkened by the gray October night, and it stunk like piss and beer and something rotting. Philadelphia screamed around them, never quite asleep, and cars sped past, and there was somebody speaking, saying something shakily, and Armin realized with a wave of panic that was not his own, that it was Jean. So he moved closer. And the panic grew into a crippling despair.

"What happened…?" Jean was gasping— not sobbing, not yet, oh no, because he was still in shock. That shock was frozen over their connection, and Armin shuddered. He felt Annie close by. "What the hell…? How could this…? Why…? Did anyone see…?"

_Marco_, Jean was thinking. _Marco… oh, God, Marco, what…?_

Armin stood beside Erwin, and stared at the corpse slumped against the wall.

Half of Marco's face was gone. Shattered. Ice was crawling across the bridge of his nose, and criss-crossing through the dark, freckled skin of his forehead, and his lips were frosted, and his single eye was glassy and crystallized. His face was almost serene, his icy lips upturned ever so slightly in half an unsuspecting smile. His corpse was so fresh that there was still color in his face, warmth in his frosted cheek, and it was a strange and sickening sight. His blood and brain and bones were all frozen solid. His arms were folded across his chest. A chunk of his shoulder was gone, and black crystals of blood and bone and petrified flesh littered the damp alley floor.

Armin turned away, and walked back to the entrance of the alley. He took a deep breath of the stale autumn air, but it smelled like frosted grass and frosted blood, and he leaned against the wall of a building, and inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his nose, and inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, and inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his nose, and inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his mouth, and he felt a little better after that, though his stomach was still churning, and he felt a frozen thread being struck within his poor, beaten mind.

Across the street, a girl with blonde hair and gleaming eyes watched him. She was retreating into the darkness of another alley, but he knew he'd caught her, and she knew he knew.

He didn't call out. He didn't tell them that he'd found Marco's killer. He just watched her tiredly, and she watched him with the same weary expression.

_Do you regret trusting me now?_ said the little murderess.

Armin was in a strange place of pained serenity. His apathy was melting into his empathy, and he was struck by the overwhelming emotions of everyone around him. Of Jean's grief and shock, and Annie's shock and terror.

In this state of mind, there was very, very little that Armin regretted. He was drunk on someone else's fear.

_No_.

* * *

_Congratulations. You made it to the end of the monster chapter. It gave me so much grief, I cried._

_Not because I killed Marco, though. That was actually a huge relief. When I told her about this chapter, Angie was like, "Yeah, I'm surprised you've kept him alive this long." Granted, she knew this was coming. And I'm sure lots of people saw it coming. _

_A lot of things happen in this chapter. Armin figures out some things. Armin goes a little crazy. Armin bonds with a lot of people. By all means, this should be my favorite chapter of the entire story, it's got everything I love, right down to asexual Armin! I do like this chapter a lot, but considering how much of a pain it was to write, I have a bit of a negative outlook on it._

_ok i'm out tho, i hope you enjoyed it, and maybe you felt sad, idk, i don't know how emotions are to an outsider_


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